Are You Feeling Okay?
by cupofteain221b
Summary: After a traumatizing experience with Moriarty, John Watson depends on Sherlock to help him recover. Sherlock Holmes discovers Moriarty's true intentions and has to hide his past from his flatmate. Johnlock Pre-Slash, Slash
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading Are You Feeling Okay? This is my first piece of fanfiction! Reviews would be greatly appreciated! Thank you!**

 **Chapter 1**

John Watson woke up in a dark room, the full moon casting down two dark, strange shadows across the floorboards. The night was humid after the day's rain and the musty scent clogged his nose. He blinked quickly a few times to get rid of the uncomfortable haze that shifted across his eyes. John was surrounded by the dark light of night, but he could make out a few windows, some ruined old furniture, peeling wallpaper, and a puddle of water directly under a hole in the roof. He tried to move out of his current position, squirming a little, but ropes, zip ties, and a cloth stuffed into his mouth suppressed his movements.

John desperately tried to gather his thoughts. He shifted through the memories in his head and pulled at today's events. He remembered telling Sherlock he was going to the supermarket, but he didn't remember arriving. He must have been nabbed on the way. Sherlock would know to look for him. He always did. For a high functioning sociopath, he did care a lot for his flatmate.

They had both been on edge since the pool incident with Moriarty. Sherlock wouldn't sleep (when did he sleep anyway?) and John couldn't help but worry for their safety. Moriarty was known for his lack of mercy and John didn't expect him to bat an eye before he blew them to shreds.

A smooth mellow voice reached John's ears, "No use John, those ropes are meant to keep even the most lethal soldiers stationary."

John didn't realize he was still yanking at his bounds until the shadow pointed it out. The dark figure seemed to move out of the wall, reforming into a relatively tall, lanky man.

"Was that a Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" the shadow said rhetorically as he moved closer. He pulled out John's gun and twirled it around his finger. _Bastard,_ John thought as the shadow showcased his skill by tying John up and then easily taking his gun away.

Slowly the full moon showered half the man's face in light, reviving his identity, "John, so nice to see you without that ridiculous parka."

John squirmed and let out a little squeal that was soon muffled by the cloth covering his mouth. Fear spread through him. Every part of his body was on him alert as Jim Moriarty stepped into the light. He hadn't been this scared since he was strapped up in bombs. The last place he wanted to be was in a dark room with Jim Moriarty.

John knew this couldn't be good. No this was bad. Maybe even worse than the pool. Just then, John noticed a cart beside him. All sorts of weapons covered the top. Metal on metal. Knives and guns. What was this, his secret arsenal? Past the cart, John could see a trough filled with dirty water. John had seen these sorts of things while he was in Afghanistan, but he had never experienced them first hand. _He's going to torture me isn't he, that sick bastard_ , he thought as the second shadow emerged and slithered towards Moriarty.

This man was noticeably taller that Jim. He was stocky, but his weight to height proportion made him seem slimmer. His arms were toned with thick muscle and he had the most menacing eyes. Even though the room was dark the man's eyes were the deepest, heaviest black John had ever seen. They were the black holes of a snake's eyes, teasing and taunting. The most intriguing part of his face was his scar. It was long and stretched from his temple down the side of his face where it ended just below his cheekbone.

"Let's skip the friendly introduction," Jim said turning towards the other man and smiling. His eyes shifted back to John, "This is Moran," He paused his eyes lazily running over John's features. He was pacing now, walking as if he was a predator stalking his prey.

God, he wished Sherlock was here. He was so good at reading body language. If he could see Moriarty now he would be able to predict his next move while John just sat there. Unfortunately, Sherlock didn't have the mass and muscle that John had over Moriarty. Sherlock and John, the perfect team.

Before Moran could do anything, Moriarty knelt down uncomfortably close and rested his hand on John's knee, "Such a waste really, a fine, strong specimen like you." Moriarty stared at John, smirked, and stepped back, "Sherlock Holmes would have been disappointed." After a long pause, Moriarty turned his back and started walking towards the door, "Take him out Moran."

Moran stepped in front of John, blocking his view of Moriarty. John felt a fist slam into his right side and he could have sworn he heard a bone crack.

* * *

"Lestrade, it's been days and you're going to tell me you haven't found anything. Days. Do you know what that means?"

On the first day of John's disappearance, Sherlock had sat in the flat rummaging through his mind palace for what seemed like hours. Little did he know it _had_ been hours since John had been there making noise and annoying Sherlock with his constant stream of comments. Sherlock didn't think much of it, probably stopped for some chips. After a while, Sherlock became curious as to what was taking his friend so long. First, he texted John…nothing, then he called, which he never did, no answer, just John's voicemail. _"This is Dr. John Watson, I'm sorry I was unable to come to the phone. Please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as possible."_ In Sherlock's opinion, it was far too lengthy just to let someone know you didn't want to talk to them.

It had been three days since John had been home. He had left and he hadn't come back. Sherlock had gone searching his regular pubs and to his old girlfriend's flats. When one of them didn't answer their doorbell, he broke in.

"Well, you should be worried, Sherlock. John doesn't do this kind of thing, he's not you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Obviously, Lestrade."

Lestrade didn't say anything for a while, the silence and tension swallowed up the conversation, "Do you think it's…"

"Oh, of course, it is Lestrade! Who else would kidnap John?"

"Oh, I don't know Sherlock, some crazy lunatic who has a weird thing for middle aged men?!" Lestrade paused, "I'm trying to talk myself out of the fact that John could be in James Moriarty's hands. The most wanted man in all of England. Oi mate what's this?" Lestrade said to someone at the Yard.

"I think we may have something that just came in. It's pretty vague, but you've figured out cases a lot more blurred than this."

Sherlock's eyes widened, "Give me ten minutes."

Sherlock hung up the phone before Lestrade could say anything else. Moriarty was a dangerous toy to play with, one misplaced step and he'd snap John's neck. He wouldn't kill him before Sherlock got there; he wanted to make him suffer. Make him watch his best friend die and make him believe it was because he was too late, when really it was Moriarty playing with his head all along.

He was always there, haunting Sherlock ever since the pool. Now John's life was in the hands of a trigger-happy psychopath that Sherlock should have killed when he had the chance. If it weren't for John he would have turned out to be like Moriarty. No matter how hard he tried, the loneliness of 221 B. would have swallowed him up.

He bounded down the stairs and onto the pavement, scanning the road for an empty cab. The street wasn't busy and Sherlock was worried that he would have to walk to a busier one. Just as he was planning a new route, a black cab barreled down the road, splashing the pavement with water. Sherlock hopped into the cab and ordered the driver to Scotland Yard. The urgency in his voice makes the cab driver drive at speeds not appropriate for the conditions. It didn't matter to Sherlock; he had to get to John.

The rain started to fall just as Sherlock arrived at Scotland Yard. He briskly walked up to Lestrade's office, taking long strides up the stairs to cut the time. Sherlock could see Lestrade through the panes in the windows, but he looked like he was talking to someone and the way he was standing, gave their identities away rather quickly.

Lestrade was relaxed: he was leaning on his desk so it wasn't the chief inspector, but his arms were crossed. He wasn't happy and his eyes were shifting back and forth, therefore there were two culprits.

Sherlock strode into the office cold eyes falling on Donovan and Anderson. They looked eager to share something. Probably that they were having an affair and needed a paid holiday. _Incompetent human beings,_ "Lestrade we have to go. Now."

"Sher-"Lestrade couldn't finish his sentence before Sherlock shoot him a glare filled with fire.

Sherlock paused right before he was going to tell Lestrade off. Donavan _and_ Anderson. They had information about John. _God, this situation has really turned the tables,_ Sherlock thought, as he turned around and paced up to Anderson, "What is it. Stop wasting my time," he spat misting Anderson with his spit. Oops.

"Don't expect us to give you information if you treat us like we're horse shit," Anderson said as he wiped at his face.

"Oh grow up Anderson. Horse shit is better than having to stare at you for more than two seconds."

"Boys," Donovan said as Anderson shot her a menacing glare.

"Don't look at me like that," Anderson spat back at her, "He's the one who thinks we'll just bow down and be stepping stones to this throne!"

Donovan shot a look at Sherlock, but he just swiped the folder out of her hands.

She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, but eventually gave in, "We've been hearing reports of noisy squatters. Nothing we haven't handled before, but this one is…interesting," Donovan paused long enough for Sherlock to interrupt without looking up from the file.

"How is this one different than another case of squatters? Is this whole department so terrible at doing their job they can't take care of a few homeless people?"

Donovan rolled her eyes and continued talking, "They move right before we get there. They leave clues that they were there. Something is always left that could have been easily taken with them. No fingerprints of course. They're smart. They know we are following them. Sounds like Moriarty."

Sherlock flipped through the file and found images of abandoned warehouses and old vacant houses. There was a map with red dots plotted where all the locations were. They followed a vague path outside of the city.

"Black dots are all possibilities for their next stop. If we could just scope those out we may be able to narrow it down," Anderson said as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Sherlock could tell he was uncomfortable with the fact that he was putting an effort into helping Sherlock. _Snob._

"No. You missed one," Sherlock pointed to a point on the map that he had spent many nights at, "There's a house that was vacated about twenty-five years ago. Previous owners couldn't sell it so they let it go to waste. No one will touch it."

Anderson scoffed, "Oh really! You think we are going to believe that? You could have pointed anywhere on that map and said, 'There's an abandoned house here. '"

Sherlock scanned the three faces: Lestrade knew, Donovan suspected, and Anderson was clueless. Not surprising. He lowered his voice quietly saying, "Just trust me, I know."

Lestrade and Donavon glared at Anderson. It was quiet obvious. All three of them knew his past; it was just a matter of looking at the big picture.

The office was quiet as realization settled in. Another puzzle piece put into place.

"Sherlock we have no idea if he's even going to be out there," Lestrade hadn't moved and his eyes were sad, "I'm sorry I can't send out a team. It would never get approved."

Sherlock turned around angrily and paced back towards the detective inspector, "I don't need a team. I need a cabbie who's willing and a working gun. I can't find mine," Sherlock held out his hand waiting for Lestrade to give him the one he was guarding in his desk drawer.

"Sherlock my hands are tied. I can't. We've given you classified information and they have a team out searching the area. This case hasn't gone public. It would draw too much attention to you and John. Assisting you any more would really be crossing the line."

Sherlock could see the hurt in Lestrade's eyes. He had to play it, just play the game, "You've been crossing the line since we met. Don't act like you're going to stop when John is in danger."

Lestrade just stared and considered the consequences. He didn't have to say much for Lestrade to give in. The gun was in his hand before he knew what to do with it.

"On one condition," Lestrade said grabbing Sherlock's arm, "Don't get yourself killed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. That was his condition? What did he think Sherlock was going to do, walk in and drop the gun?

"You've done it before Sherlock. Don't do it again."

Sherlock took a good look at the man in front of him. Big grey eyes, tan skin from sun beds, dark thick eyelashes, and grey hair. He'd aged in the last few days with dark circles under his eyes and new age lines.

"I'm coming with you Sherlock and we're bloody taking my car."

The detective inspector walked out of his office leaving Sherlock, Donovan, and Anderson perplexed.

* * *

John's head lulled forward causing his neck to tighten. He winced trying hard not to breathe too heavily because his other injuries would hurt even more. They had moved around to about three different abandoned locations. The days seemed to blur together and John couldn't tell exactly how long he had been with Moriarty and Moran. He hadn't eaten since the first night and the constant torture wasn't helping his physical strength. They were breaking him slowly. He suspected Moriarty was just doing this because he knew it would lead him to Sherlock. It was just a trick; a trap that Sherlock would walk right into. John just hoped he was smart enough to bring some form of back up, but that was highly unlikely. He was Sherlock Holmes, for goodness sake, he didn't _need_ back up. _Idiot,_ John thought as his head pounded against his skull.

John looked down at his chest. His shirt had been stripped a long time ago. Small, deep cuts were carved into his skin. They had been patched up, but not before Moran had dug his knife deeper and played with John. A long gash ran from his collarbone down to his hip, which was sure to be infected. It hurt like hell, too. The sick bastards hadn't even bothered to clean this one up. Moriarty had had a go at John's neck and throat. Surprisingly, Moriarty hadn't slit his neck open, but instead drew thin, carved lines along John's jawline with the knife.

The blood had dried on his trousers and anywhere on his torso. Damn, he smelled ripe. The only thing that slightly resembled a bath was the end-of-the-night water torture. Moran was rough and had slammed John's head back and forth relentlessly, barely allowing a gasp of air in between the vigorous cycle. Breathing had become harder and John hoped and prayed he didn't have any fractured ribs, but being a doctor himself he knew his wishful thinking was blind and naïve.

He could barely move without screaming in pain. John didn't think he could take another beating, cutting, or torturing session. Honestly, he just wanted to lie down and fall asleep forever. He just couldn't take it. He really had tried. He tried to fight, but he wasn't getting out of this one. _Damnit Sherlock._ John sobbed, which caused his left side to rattle and he had to suppress a scream by biting his bottom lip.

At their current stop, John had passed out before he could see his surroundings. The room was almost pitch black, but a small slither of light was able to pass through the blacked out window. John just assumed the paint had chipped a little.

"Don't look so glum John. Sherlock should be here any minute now," Moriarty stepped into the light and gave John a wicked grin.

John glared back and tried to control himself. If he fell apart now Moriarty would win and then he would kill Sherlock, "This was all just a trap wasn't it? Just to get back at Sherlock."

Jim laughed and paced around John's chair, "Oh you naïve, little thing. Do you remember what I told you earlier? Sherlock's been here before. Spent quite a lot of time here, in fact. I wonder what he was doing here?"

He crouched down in front of John. He was nervous. His eyes kept wondering off to look out of the corner of his eye, yet his overall aura leaked confidence.

His attention quickly shifted back to John, "It's truly amazing that someone as brilliant as Sherlock would pick someone as stupid as you for a pet," he spat the last words straight into John's face. His eyes were coals fueling the fire in his breath. He was like a dragon causing mass destruction everywhere in his wake. John tried to process Moriarty's behavior, but his head was crowded and heavy. Moriarty never lost his cool, so what had happened to make him react like this? Just then, Moriarty leapt out of John's reach and scrambled behind him.

Before John could twist around a heavy hand gripped his shoulder.

* * *

Lestrade pulled onto a dirt road that was all too familiar to Sherlock. Memories of the abandoned drug den flooded Sherlock. This was the place where he had lost all self-control and everything he had accomplished. He hadn't been to one of these in a few decades and he wasn't happy to be back. The long nights spent crouched on the floor, the calmness of his head, and the pain of knowing that no one would come for him surrounded Sherlock, but he moved on, head held high. Moriarty was very good at his job, plucking at Sherlock's pressure points in this manner. He could feel the fire in the pit of his stomach.

"Let's go Lestrade," Sherlock said as he moved gracefully out of the car.

Lestrade scrambled around, grabbing Sherlock by his coat collar, "Are you crazy?! We can't just barge in! He would be expecting that, wouldn't he?"

Lestrade said the last statement with such uncertainty that Sherlock cracked a smile.

"Moriarty _is_ expecting us. He's planning on you to come up with such an outrageous plan and for me to shut it down. That's how we are going to get John, by beating Moriarty at his own game. Don't you see," Sherlock said as he focused on Lestrade, reading his movements.

Lestrade bit his tongue. Sherlock honestly didn't know how he got anything done at the yard with all his pondering and careful thinking. Probably why he called in Sherlock.

"I don't know Sherlock. What if…what if he's dead? What if we're too late? I can't let you see him like that. I can only imagine…"

Sherlock froze. The rest of Lestrade's sentence drifted into the mass void. He hadn't even though that John wouldn't make it out alive. He knew it was a possibility, but he refused to think about an empty 221 B. No John running around making tea and toast. No yelling about the experiments. No one to pester and annoy Sherlock. No one. Just Sherlock and his worst enemy, his own head. Sherlock couldn't think about it anymore, "I have to get him out, dead or alive. He deserves better. He's my friend."

Sherlock turned back around and walked toward the house, frustrated at the fact that Lestrade didn't understand. Lestrade was so set on Sherlock not caring that he couldn't see how he felt about John. He didn't know how much this army doctor did for his heartless friend.

He could hear Lestrade behind him making more noise than Sherlock thought humanly possible.

The moon was only a sliver in the night, not shedding off enough light to guide then safely across the path to the house. It did, however, give the abandoned house an eerie look. The windows were blacked out and the railing had been torn. It was just how Sherlock remembered it and just how Moriarty wanted him to see it.

Sherlock pulled the handgun out of his pocket. He paused and listened for any sounds of unwanted residents. Nothing. Sherlock opened the door and braced himself for assault. Nothing, no sign of movement, no sounds echoed through the house, nothing. Sherlock stepped into the house.

The memories swarmed his head. The old furniture, a broken chandler, black windows, and hypodermic needles laying everywhere. Personally, Sherlock used his own needle. It was unsanitary to inject life threating substances into your body with someone else's needle. The irony surrounding that thought was suffocating.

Dismissing his own thoughts, Sherlock noticed a small pool of dark water collected at the end of the stairs. Sherlock motioned for Lestrade to follow him. _"Don't point the gun at anyone in good company, even if it's Anderson,"_ John's wise words echoed through Sherlock's head, " _Walk straight and always clear any openings. You never know where the enemy could be hiding."_ As Sherlock walked closer to the pool, he soon realized he wasn't looking at water, but human blood.

"Bloody hell…is that John's?"

Sherlock responded to Lestrade's absurd comment with a roll of his eyes, "How would I know? We live together, I'm not his doctor."

Lestrade let out a low chuckle, "Oh, but he's yours isn't he?"

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look, which quickly shut Lestrade up, "Shut up."

Lestrade tried to break the uncomfortable situation that it was _someone's_ blood at the bottom of the stairwell, but failed miserably, "Should we go up there?"

Sherlock bent down and touched the blood with his long slender fingers. He pulled the dark, red substance up to his nose and smelled it, "It isn't fresh. It's been dripping here for a few hours."

The edge of the pool had dried confirming Sherlock's suspicions. Either Jim was baiting Sherlock into running up the stairs or John was really up there suffering. Sherlock had told himself a thousand times to not let his heart rule his head, and this time, he didn't know which side was right.

* * *

John's head lulled forward as Moran repeatedly punched him in his face and stomach. His blood was everywhere and he wasn't sure where it all was coming from. He knew the zip ties that bound his wrist together had carved into his skin, he could feel his nose bleeding, and his mouth was full of blood. Moriarty had slipped outside the doorway a few minutes ago and quietly trotted down the stairs. John hadn't heard anything since. Only Moran's bloody knuckles to keep him company. At least he didn't have to deal with Moriarty's creepy stare or his sing-song voice.

The pair didn't seem to sleep. Their only goal was to hurt John, which in turn would hurt Sherlock. Moriarty wanted Sherlock to feel pain. All of Moriarty's focus was on how to mar John's skin and soul. The worst was when he poked and prodded at the scar on his left shoulder. All of his pain, struggle, and mental instability was locked into the small spider webbed scar. The memories of the war would flood his head and he always had a hard time fighting back the tears. He hadn't cried in front of anyone in years and he wasn't going to start now. Especially not in front of James Moriarty and his menacing side kick.

Moran stepped back for a second, taking a small breather from punching John senseless, "You know why he's doing this, right?"

John shook his head, not having the strength to mutter a sound.

Moran smirked, "No one ever sees him and lives." Moran pulled a long knife out of the sheath linked to his belt. He ran it across his finger leaving a small pool of blood on the pad of his fingertip, "He had several of his men learn you and Mr. Holmes's schedules, habits, trends. It was quiet easy to learn yours, but your friend was erratic. Nothing ever seemed to fit. Odd that you two would get along so well?"

Moran walked over to John and pressed the knife into his neck. He could feel the blood trickling down his throat. He wanted it to be over. His body trembled and the knife dug a little deeper. John was freezing and his eyes were clouded with blood. His pants were soaked with water and his own sweat. John's head was clouded and forming coherent thoughts became much harder.

"I worked for years to get where I am now and all it takes is a few bombs to have him interested in you two? The ladder was high and full of blood and betrayal, but in the end it's all worth it to see you suffer. Guilty by association, huh," Moran spat into John's face, spraying saliva. He gripped the back of John's neck and tore at his skin with his fingernails. John winced and tears pooled in his eyes.

Moran motioned to his scar, "You know your friend gave me this. We used to know each other, but then he decided it was better to leave and give me a gift instead."

God, Sherlock had met this maniac? Looks like both their choices in "friends" was a little screwy. Moran's features were straight and unrevealing, but his voice was filled with a deep pit of emotion. He pushed the thought aside and focused on not making his predicament worse.

"Sounds like…you're, kind of…jealous," John said barely choking the words out.

Moran's eyes turned to fire and John knew then he had made a mistake. He pulled on John's hair and grabbed his neck, "You son of a bitch." So much for not making things worse.

Moran tightened his grip around John's neck. He could feel the airways closing off. His eyes were drooping and his head was losing oxygen. He was done; this was it.

The darkness surrounded him and he embraced his homecoming.

 **Author's Note: Thank you again for reading my fanfiction! I will try to upload new chapters every week on Sundays. Thank you and please let me know what you think! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: As promised I did upload a new chapter! I am so glad I was on schedule with this one. If you are a continuing reader, I just want to thank you for continuing with my story. It means the world and I would love to know how you like this chapter in the reviews below! Thanks again and enjoy! :)**

 **Chapter 2**

Sherlock crept up the old, creaky stairs, gun in hand and senses turned on high. He could feel the nervous energy radiating off Lestrade. One would think when placed in these types of situations frequently, Lestrade would be much more relaxed.

"Lestrade, you have to relax. Freezing up when you need to pull the trigger is the last thing we need."

"Well I'm sorry Sherlock that I'm scared for our lives! You do realize we just walked into a crack house that is currently occupied by England's most wanted man? And we don't have any back up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sneered at the detective, "We won't _need_ backup if you don't blow my head off."

Before Lestrade could say anything, a door creaked at the end of the hallway. Sherlock slowly crept up the stairs, gun pointed out, safety off, ready to fire.

Nothing. No ominous shadows. No creepy lurking figures. Nothing. Must have been the draft.

"Where the hell did that noise come from?"

Sherlock didn't respond; he was too busy analyzing the rest of the hallway. At first glance, nothing immediately hit him; it was too dark. Almost as if Lestrade was reading Sherlock's mind, he clicked on his torch and propelled the light down the hallway.

The paint was peeling from the walls and the light fixtures were all broken. Shattered glass was everywhere, which Sherlock soon realized was intentional.

"Don't step on the glass," he said as he walked down the hallway towards the window.

Lestrade seemed to pick up on the fact that the glass was a noise trigger because he didn't question Sherlock's demand. If they stepped on any of the broken shards Moriarty and Moran would be able to find them much easier than before.

The window at the end of the hallway was blacked out with paint, but it was slowly starting to chip away with time. He remembered when his fellow junkies had blacked out the windows in this old house years ago. The memories that he had kept away for so long projected through his head. All the pain and the thrill. His blood pumping and vision blurring. Everything an addict would be and everything he envisioned. He had tried so hard to leave everything behind him, but with one twist of his arm Moriarty had pulled him back into the one place he wanted nothing to do with. Without John, nothing of his new life would last. With that, Sherlock turned and tried to forget about all the bad memories that haunted him in this house.

Sherlock stared at the three doors, trying to figure out which one his friend was hidden behind. They all looked relatively the same, black paint, the occasional graffiti, and small dings. Sherlock noticed a pool of water had seeped through the second door. He approached the door and eased it open. The room was like a black hole, sucking all light out of the hallway.

Lestrade pointed the torch into the room, emitting a harsh glow on the body propped up in a chair in the center of the room.

John sat in a metal chair, his hands tied behind his back. The only article of clothing left on his person were his trousers. John's voice was suffocated by a gag stuffed into his mouth, though he didn't look like he would have much to say. His hair was coated in blood. Blood covered his chest, neck, hair, and arms. Sherlock could see cut marks all along his body. His face was bruised and he looked exhausted.

Sherlock slowly approached his friend. He knelt down in front of John and clasped his hands softly around his neck. Sherlock removed the cloth from John's mouth with his right hand. It was soaked in blood and smelled of vomit and bacteria. He felt a warm sticky substance cling to his left hand. He peered around John's shoulder and saw three deep claw marks had ripped through John's skin. Horrified, Sherlock clasped his hand over the wound to stop the slow flow of blood. _Just relax, Sherlock. Everything will be fine if you keep your head._

John's eyes flickered open. He didn't seem to understand his surrounding and his voice cracked as he tried to speak, "Sherlock," John whispered so softly Sherlock had a hard time hearing his flatmate, "Sher- I,"

A line of blood ran out of John's mouth. Sherlock wiped it away with the pad of his thumb. He motioned for Lestrade to give him the knife. In that moment, he hoped they had remembered to bring it with them. _Thank god,_ Sherlock thought as Lestrade placed it into his hand.

"You look awful," Sherlock said as he clipped at the zip ties and cutting the wires that bound John to the chair.

John let out a chuckle that turned into a violent coughing battle caused by the blood in his mouth. "So do you. You haven't slept in days."

"Neither have you," Sherlock responded. He noticed long, shallow cuts along John's jawline and throat. They were perfectly placed to maximize pain, but John was still breathing. The person behind this knife was an artist. He or she must have had extreme amounts of practice to cause this much damage without killing the victim. Moriarty was too erratic to have performed this maneuver. Sherlock started to wonder if Moriarty was working with someone. Was there someone else in this house? Sherlock couldn't think about that right now; he had to get John out of here.

"Come on, John." Sherlock lifted his flatmate from the chair and almost collapsed against the weight. _Lay off the biscuits, John,_ Sherlock thought to himself. He pulled John's right arm over his shoulder and Lestrade grabbed his left arm. They staggered out of the dark room, moving painfully slow. John couldn't support his own weight and his constant shift of his weight made Sherlock positive he had fractured several of his ribs. The whole time they were walking John was biting on his bottom lip, suppressing his screams. If the circumstances were more appropriate, Sherlock would have found John's lip bite a bit sexy.

"Oh, s-hit. Fucking stairs," John whimpered. Tears now mixed with the blood on his face.

Sherlock stared at his friend. Everything that Sherlock hid was staring John in the face. Everything. His whole past was here. Just this once, Sherlock hoped John was too oblivious to see the truth.

John moved first and Sherlock supported him as they trudged down the stairs. The house was dark and only small slithers of light snaked through the cracks.

They trudged through the house. Sherlock couldn't help but look up at the ceiling. The ominous, dark sky poured through the damaged roof. A draft swam through the house and Sherlock shivered. He looked back at Lestrade and his teeth were chattering. John looked blue in the face and his fingers were turning slightly purple. Sherlock curled his right hand over John's, hoping that would help warm his fingers. It was only going to get worse when they braved the cold outside. They didn't stay long enough to look for John's clothes or shoes. His trousers would have to do.

Once they crossed the threshold dividing the house from the outside world, Sherlock and Lestrade practically ran to the car. John even picked up his own pace. They paused at the car for a split second, all three of them trying to catch their breath.

All of the sudden, gunshots echoed through the field. A bullet bounced off Lestrade's car and another shattered one of his windows.

"Get in the car!" Lestrade yelled.

Everything was a blur. Sherlock jumped into the backseat with John and adjusted his friend so he wasn't choking on his own blood. Lestrade hopped into the driver's seat and pulled out of the driveway.

Sherlock could hear several more shots being fired. After they were far enough, the sound died out and all he could hear was the quiet purr of Lestrade's car and John's shuddered breath.

Back at the house, Sherlock didn't notice the severity of John's wounds, but now that he had the time to take in his friend's state, he realized that John was losing blood too fast. He quickly started to tend to the long cuts and tears at John's looked for any random material lying in Lestrade's car, and sure enough a white undershirt was discarded behind the passenger's seat. As Sherlock pressed the stark white shirt against the backside of John's neck, blood seeped through the material, staining it red. He could feel the blood cling to his hand and he had to stop himself from gagging. There was something extremely disturbing about feeling the blood of someone that _mattered_. All the bloody bodies he had been around didn't bother him, but the feeling of John's blood made Sherlock angry. Angry at Moriarty. Angry at The Yard. Angry at himself.

John wasn't responding to anything Sherlock did. Sherlock assumed an army doctor should be helping guide him through the process, but John's face was vacant. That couldn't be good. He took off his coat and wrapped it around John's shoulders, trying to warm his friend. The heater was blasting hot air, but John's face was still slightly blue.

John started to tremble and shake. His body tightened and his eyes widened to the size of fists. Sherlock gripped John's hands and tried to get his attention, "John, stay with me John, please," Sherlock could feel his eyes swell with tears.

John stopped trembling and his eyes started to sink.

"John, no John, please stay awake. For me, please John," Sherlock pleaded with the broken man. He patted his flatmate's cheek rather hard, blocking John from falling asleep. He could sleep when he was dead.

Sherlock felt his mobile buzzing in his pocket. He pulled it out and immediately knew who was calling. An unknown number flashed across his screen; he took a deep breath before pulling his phone to his ear.

"Sherlock, you left too soon. We were expecting you to stay for the fun." Moriarty's voice slithered like a snake through the phone.

Sherlock's eyes latched onto the back window of the car. The house was still in view as Lestrade drove rather recklessly down the dirt road. This was all part of Moriarty's plan. He chose this house for a reason. John would finally know the truth about Sherlock's drug addiction. This was all a game. Moriarty knew their focus would be on saving John, not on catching the spider at the center of the web. "We? You're working with someone? How intriguing?" Sherlock smirked to himself for being right about Moriarty's puppet.

He could feel the eye-roll coming from the other end of the line. "Oh please Sherlock, it's not as if I kill _anyone_ who sees me in person. You two aren't the only ones I let go."

"Stop dancing. Why did you call? John saw what you wanted him to see. This is the end."

"Oh, hardly Sherlock. This is only the beginning." Jim's voice rang through the space in between Sherlock's mobile and his ear, "Greater things are to come, but next time I won't call. John won't be so impressed once you break down this 'case' for him. Don't try to hide it. He'll want to know. Things were said; he'll have questions. John's smarter than he looks, he'll know. He'll know the truth eventually. If you won't tell him than I will. The question is, will he stay?"

Jim killed the line and Sherlock slowly pulled his mobile away. He sat back beside John and let himself go for that short moment. His head was spinning and the world felt as if it was crashing around him.

* * *

John didn't remember much from Sherlock and Lestrade's heroic rescue. He didn't remember how he got out of the house. He couldn't recall arriving at a hospital. He honestly didn't know much of anything. What he did remember was Sherlock. He remembered Sherlock screaming at him to stay awake, when his body physically couldn't. He remembered the dark haired man grabbing his hands and pleading with him. He remembered his silver-blue eyes filling with tears that would never fall. He remembered his face, his sharp cheekbones and his lips. He remembered Sherlock. Everything else was blurred in his memory.

Now, John's eyes flickered as bright fluorescent lights shined on his face. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his eyes. He tried to sit up, but instead a sharp gasp filled his lungs. Everything flooded back to him. The torture, the water, the blood, Moran, and Moriarty. His screams and Moriarty's laugh. The sound of his flesh tearing and being cut, and the house and its ripe smell.

His breath became shallow and he felt like he was underwater. He couldn't move or his whole body would scream in pain.

Finally able to control his breathing, John surveyed his surroundings. To his right was a window that looked out towards a…brick wall. Wow, what a great view. The curtains were blue and pulled wide open. A small nightstand was just in reach of his right arm, but he didn't think he had the strength to touch it. Directly in front of him was a wooden door that allowed personnel in and out of his room. John glanced to his left and saw a dark mob of curly hair laying on the edge of the hospital bed. He never had a sense for personal space, did he? Sherlock was making small sleeping sounds and John couldn't help but smile.

Sherlock, his friend, flatmate, and colleague. Even in his time of service, John never had anyone fit into all three of those categories at once. A hell of a lot had happened to him before he met Sherlock, and the arrogant sod had made his life a little bit better. Hell, he got him out of that god awful house.

He hadn't seen much of the house, but he could tell at one point it was a drug den. Based on the needles, dried up blunts, and beer bottles. He may have been out of whack, but he wasn't blind. From the minute John met Sherlock, he had always wondered about his soon-to-be-flatmate. Sherlock just _seemed_ like the type of lunatic to get involved in that sort of thing. They hadn't ever talk about it, but John always suspected. Hell, he even knew a handful of nurses messed with high powered drugs to get through their long, grinding shifts. It was quite odd and made John chuckle. John was pretty sure he was on some sort of ridiculous drugs because that usually didn't make him laugh.

John never considered himself the type of person to like dangerous people, but Sherlock didn't _seem_ dangerous. Of course he towered over most people and he had sharp, dark features, but he wasn't dangerous. He was kind of child-like. Not in a bad way, but he seemed… pure? John didn't even know if that was the right word to describe Sherlock, but it seemed to fit. He was stubborn and he didn't like sleep. He had these cute quirks and he had no regard for their household furniture.

John extended his hand and laid it on Sherlock's shoulder. For a split second everything was peaceful until the sleeping consulting detective shot out of his current position. His eyes were wide with fear and his hands were clinched into fists. He looked out of sorts and confused as to what he was doing in a bland hospital room. It was amazing that he could sleep through John's wheezing and his heavy gulps of air, but the slightest touch woke the sleeping giant from his nap.

"Whoa Sherlock, easy there. Didn't mean to startle you," John said as Sherlock relaxed, "You alright, mate?"

The tired man stared at John with his wide silver eyes. An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. John's eyes shifted over Sherlock's and they both turned away rather quickly.

"I'm going to step outside for a few minutes. Hopefully find your nurse." Sherlock gave John a coy smile and left the room, coat tails sweeping behind him.

John thought his flatmate's behavior was a little off. Normally there was a button to buzz a nurse in. Maybe he needed some time outside of this room. In fact, John was getting quite tired of it himself and he had only been awake for a few minutes.

He could feel his eyes close softly. _Only five minutes,_ John told himself, but the cool room and the beeping monitors lulled him into a sleep he had needed for a long time now.

* * *

Sherlock waited at the front desk for John's nurse to reappear. He assumed he should have just buzzed her in from the hospital room, but he didn't think he would be able to sit and look at John's bruised face any longer, knowing in some indirect way, he did that to John.

John's blue grey eyes were more alert than they were last night. The ER staff had done a relatively good job of cleaning him up. His shallow cuts were clean and bandages were placed to hold the rest of the blood. They stitched his deeper wounds together as John's screams echoed through the white hallway of the hospital. Sherlock had wondered if they were screams of physical or mental pain. He didn't understand why he tortured himself with these rhetorical questions.

The doctor had ordered an x-ray and found three of John's ribs were fractured. Sherlock had sat outside John's room the whole time, waiting for news or answers or anything.

He couldn't shake the fact that Moriarty had played his weakness so well. He had woven a web around John and used Sherlock's drug addiction as leverage. Sherlock was fueling his game. He couldn't look at John without thinking of everything he had hid from his flatmate and all the truth that had to be said out loud. Lestrade's little drug bust that John had witnessed was nothing compared to all the damage he had caused before they had met. Nicotine patches helped and so did the occasional cigarette, but all the damage that he had tried so hard to bury at the back of his mind was shoved to the front. He didn't know if he had the courage to tell John about his past.

"Hello Sherlock," said a familiar voice from behind. Sherlock could recognize that dry, even voice anywhere. Just what he needed.

Sherlock whipped around, his eyes analyzing his brother. His hair was messier than usual, his eyes looked tired, and his posture wasn't rod straight. Surprising, because he always had a stick up his arse supporting his spine. He was wearing a blue pinstriped suit and twirling his umbrella in his hand.

"Brother mine. Come to get that stick up your arse removed?" Sherlock smirked and cocked his head toward his brother.

"Well aren't you just full of them today?" Mycroft walked closer to Sherlock and he could feel his brother's eyes deducing everything off of Sherlock. It was incredibly irritating. "Sleeping beauty has awoken?"

Sherlock started to speak, but Mycroft beat him to the punch, "Ahhh, a simple kiss from prince charming recused him from his slumber," Mycroft said with mischievous eyes.

"Shut up, Mycroft." Sherlock said through his teeth, "Isn't this a little petty. Even for you?" Sherlock had to reframe from punching his brother square in his perfect teeth.

Mycroft had "deduced" Sherlock's "attachment" to John Watson by watching a conversation between the two one day in 221 B. It was just like when they were younger. Mycroft found dirt on Sherlock and toyed with him, threatening to reveal his secrets. Sherlock had a whole list on Mycroft, but nothing compared to his brother's arsenal. It's probably why he worked for the British Government. He could find, and more importantly, use someone's darkest secrets against them.

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock's arm as he tried to move past his older brother. "I told you not to get involved. Do you realize how this man has affected your work ethic? Turning down eights, Sherlock?! Don't call me petty when you can't seem to set your priorities straight."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock responded, a little more forcefully this time. He tore his arm out of Mycroft's grip and tried to push past him.

Mycroft brought his arm up against Sherlock's chest, "You have one job, Sherlock. One job. You better do it right or not at all. Stop playing with your flatmate. This is your last warning." He turned and started to walk away.

"I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft. You can't control me."

Mycroft turned back around, his jaw relaxed, "The child always assumes that they aren't a child." He smirked and walked out of the hospital.

 _Bastard._ Sherlock clinched his fist and he could feel his eye twitching as he tried to blow his brother's head off. His twat of a brother and the fact that he had probably missed John's nurse almost made Sherlock want to scream. He decided to retreat back to the bland hospital room.

His conversation with his brother was short, but that was even more infuriating. Why did he let his brother get to him so easily? And why did Mycroft think he knew everything about Sherlock? He wasn't _pinning_ and he sure as hell wasn't playing with John. He had left all the right clues and John was too busy to pick up on them. Or he was just stupid.

Sherlock arrived at John's room and slowly inched the door open with his fingers. John's eyes were closed, but by looking at his breathing he wasn't asleep. He would have looked peaceful if it wasn't for the bruises and cuts on his face.

Sherlock crept over to his chair and quietly sat down. He didn't think he had ever tried to be this quiet for someone in his whole existence.

"Sherlock is that you?" John said through closed eyes. His voice was crackly and he seemed to have a hard time pushing the words out.

Sherlock looked at his flatmate's chest. His breathing was shaky; if he were to balance plates on John's chest they would have fallen off and shattered, "Did the nurse come and see you?"

John nodded, "She told me to get some rest."

Sherlock could hear the sleepiness in John's voice. He was slightly slurring his words together and his head kept nodding forward. Sherlock sat quietly, looking at John's smooth profile. When he was sure his flatmate was asleep, he dragged his chair towards the side of the bed and laid his head next to John's thigh. He breathed in the smell of the sheets, which had John's coffee smell even though he had only been in this bed for less than a day. Sherlock drifted into a deep slumber with the comfort of his friend so close to him.

* * *

 _The only light source in the tiny room was a small lantern. Three kids around nineteen and twenty crouched over several hypodermic needles and a bottle of cocaine. A girl with bleach blond hair and several lip piercings took a sip of beer. One of the boys had light brown hair and was wearing wide-rimmed glasses. The blonde girl and brown-haired boy sat extremely close and were giggling._

 _Another boy was sitting across from the brown haired boy. He looked as if he were seventeen. Small puffs of peach fuzz were growing on his chin. He had the sharpest cheekbones and the prettiest blue eyes to ever grace the Earth. His black hair glittered in the small light that showered the room. He was quite stunning._

 _The dark haired boy was staring at the brown haired boy. He kept biting his lip and twiddling with a piece of glass in his hand._

" _Oi, what's wrong with ya mate? Need another go?" said the brown-haired boy._

 _The black-haired boy nodded and reached over to grab the bottle._

" _What the hell you think you're doing, eh?" The brown-haired boy snatched the bottle out of the other boy's hand._

" _Charlie, come on he's just a kid. Sherlock doesn't know any bett-"the girl said before she was cut off._

" _Shut up! He's old enough to know some etiquette! Or the little fucker better learn." Charlie approached Sherlock and kicked him. He tried to move out of reach, but Charlie climbed on top of him and hit Sherlock. The smaller, dark-haired boy tried to kick out of his predicament, but he didn't stand a chance against the older brown-haired boy._

 _Charlie grabbed his wrists, "Listen here. I don't give a damn about you. You're not going to live another day you piece of shit. You think you can come in here and shit on us. You think you're better than us, huh? You fucking cunt."_

 _The girl grabbed Charlie's arm, trying to pull him away. He pushed her off and started choking Sherlock. Blood was running down his cheek and he kept sputtering it out of his mouth. For a split second, Charlie was relaxed and Sherlock took action. He moved his knee and kicked Charlie in his crotch. He fell back and Sherlock pulled him up by his shirt._

 _He grabbed an empty beer bottle off the floor and smashed it against Charlie's head, hard. Immediately, Charlie dropped to the floor. The dark haired boy bent over and started punching Charlie. His first few hits were clumsy and awkward, but he kept coming harder and harder._

 _The blond girl jumped up and dragged Sherlock off of Charlie, "Bloody hell, what are you thinking? He'll kill you, you know!"_

 _Charlie was knocked out cold, his face was cut, and his blood ran down his rounded features. Sherlock had tears running down his cheeks, but his voice was even and harsh, "I don't care."_

" _Sherlock, they'll kill you. You need to leave, now!" The girl jumped up and grabbed his coat and threw it at him._

" _And go where exactly? This is my home, Meg. I don't have anywhere else."_

 _Meg's eyes softened and she bent down in front of the boy, "This is a pretty lousy excuse for a home. I've always liked you, Sherlock. You're so bright. I can't even picture what made you come here, but you need to leave."_

 _Sherlock wiped the tears from his eyes, "I don't know. I don't know what to do. No one loves me back home. I can't go back; they'll kill me."_

" _Family won't kill you. Trust me, I know, but everyone here is high and they're all Charlie's friends. If you're as smart as we think, you can 'deduce' the situation and know this isn't where you should be. Please, Sherlock. Just go." Meg's eyes were pleading and her voice cracked at the word "please"._

" _It doesn't work like that," Sherlock said as he rocked back and forth, clutching his arms around his knees._

 _He always wondered if anyone here was looking out for him. He never suspected Meg to be the one to help him. She was always clinging to Charlie and seemed pretty weak anyway. He had always liked her, though. She was always nice to him and made sure he got his supply._

 _Sherlock slowly stood up, put on his coat, and walked out of the room. The hallway was pitch black, but he was able to find the stairs from memory and then he was out in the open night sky._

* * *

John awoke the next morning to the constant chirping of the machines to his right. He felt fine until an intense pain ricocheted through his abdomen. His eyes clouded as a needle pain tore through his chest. He gasped in pain. He started seeing stars and he felt like he was going to pass out. This wasn't normal. He could see Sherlock in front of his face, but he couldn't say anything. Apparently, his pain blocked the use of his vocal chords.

Sherlock hit a button that John hoped called in a nurse. His abdomen felt like it was on fire. He could feel his body shutting down and his eyes started to close against his will. Before his eyes shut, he heard Sherlock yell at one of the nurses. As his body caved in, he thought about Sherlock and his lips and his eyes and his dangerously sharp cheekbones and his laugh and he just thought about Sherlock. Was that normal?

* * *

Sherlock sat in the boring lobby, waiting for some sort of news about John's emergency surgery. Internal bleeding. The doctor had told Sherlock it wasn't critical, but Sherlock knew they were just saying that to ease his worry. John's situation was critical enough to need surgery, so it couldn't all be rainbows and butterflies.

Apparently, when he had his x-ray, the bleeding was so small the doctors had overlooked it and he had been slowly bleeding from the inside out. Sherlock had been furious. He knew he should have been looking over the doctor's shoulder the whole time, but apparently that was "unorthodox" and "rude" and he should just let the "professionals" do their jobs. Some professionals they were.

John's situation had just grown worse and worse. He had seemed fine when he first woke up. A little tired and broken, but he had controlled the pain and told Sherlock he was fine. He was John Watson and he didn't like to admit he was in pain. Someone was always in more pain than himself. Sherlock assumed that sort of thinking was an effect of the war.

John's surgeon walked into the waiting room. "Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stood up and approached the doctor, his eyes cold and his features closed off, "Speak quickly."

The doctor gulped, "Mr. Holmes, the procedure went well. I'm not going to go into the details, but John is going to be fine. He had some internal bleeding, but he's all set. No need to worry. There were some other minor complications that exaggerated his pain, but he's fine." The doctor was rambling and Sherlock could tell he was nervous, but he just told him the surgery went okay; what was bugging him?

"Is everything okay, doctor? You seem shaken."

The doctor chuckled, "I _have_ just operated on a man," he paused and looked back up at the consulting detective, but when he wasn't smiling the doctor's laugh died, "It's just…that…I, uh, never expected to meet you Mr. Holmes. I read Dr. Watson's blog, and wow, are you good. I'm sorry this isn't very professional."

"No, not at all," Sherlock replied, annoyed that the doctor's attention wasn't focused on John, "I suppose you should get back to work."

"Yes, I…uh, I'll get going now." He turned around and started to walk away, "Oh and Mr. Holmes. You don't have to worry about Dr. Watson. He'll be fine. He's a fighter."

Sherlock nodded and watched as the Doctor retreated back into the never ending hallway.

Once again, Sherlock was left alone with his wandering thoughts. That wasn't exactly a good thing because they seemed to always go back to the consulting detective. He wished he could go back to the pool and shoot Moriarty. Why didn't he just shoot him? John would have been shocked and would have probably yelled at him. (Sherlock didn't usually mind people yelling at him, but he didn't like when John was furious. It was off putting.) None of this would have happened if he would have just pulled the trigger, but Sherlock couldn't resist the thought of a challenge. That's exactly what Jim Moriarty was. A game, a challenge, and an insane psychopath who had kidnapped his flatmate and tortured him for the fun of it. God, what was wrong with him? Why hadn't he called Lestrade that night? Sherlock rarely questioned his decisions. It was out of character and odd. He didn't understand it and he sure as hell didn't like it.

Sherlock retreated to his seat in the lobby. It was really late and everyone who had been waiting before had left. Sherlock stayed. He waited for an hour and then two and then three before he quietly dozed off to sleep.

Sherlock woke to a gentle shake of his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see two brown eyes staring back. He recognized John's nurse almost immediately. She had straight black hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. Her scrubs were a little blue that complimented her eyes.

"Mr. Holmes. John's awake. He asked for you."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, shot out of his chair, and ran down the hall to John's new room. He stopped just short of the door and collected his breath. He slowly pushed the door open and finally relaxed when he saw John.

His blue eyes stared into Sherlock's and he smiled. In that moment Sherlock's brain was running, firing off small bits of information about John's condition, but Sherlock shoved them aside. John looked stunning and his bruises were starting to fade, but oh god, he was alive and Sherlock was so happy his friend was alive. His hair was a mess, his face was a mess, and he was a mess, but oh god, he looked great considering the circumstances. He was slightly damp with sweat, but Sherlock didn't care. He walked over to his friend, wide eyed, heart racing, and hugged him. It was awkward and he couldn't squeeze too tight or he would hurt John, but he was so relieved and happy. He'd never been filled with this much joy. Was that odd? Did friends get this happy to see each other? Sherlock didn't care what his brain was doing for once.

John chuckled and slowly let his hands graze down Sherlock's back and eventually they rested on Sherlock's hips, "Sherlock, you alright?"

Sherlock backed up and stared at John's torso. He had a thick white bandage that covered most of his chest, but Sherlock could see his scars. The scars from the knife and his surgery ones too. He moved his eyes back up to John's. God, they were the most beautiful eyes, "Are _you_ alright?"

John looked down at his hands on his flatmate's hips and blushed. He quickly pulled away, "Yeah…I'm fine. I feel okay."

Silence fell over the room. John's eyes kept darting off towards the door. Sherlock quickly turned around to see what his flatmate was staring at. The young nurse stood in the doorway, a small smile spread over her face.

"I'll leave you two alone for a few minutes. John, I'll need to see you after a while, so keep it short." She closed the door and walked back to another room.

Sherlock swiveled back around. John looked tired. The excitement in his eyes had faded and his eyelids were heavy.

He looked down at John's hands. In all the excitement Sherlock had forgotten about how John's hands had moved. He thought back to the slow graze of John's fingertips along his own back. How John had paused at the small of his back and moved his hands down towards his Sherlock's hips.

"Sherlock, Earth to Sherlock?"

He didn't realize he had spaced out, "Uh fine I'm fine, John."

Again, a silence fell over the room. Both Sherlock and John had to find something interesting besides each other to stare.

"Are you okay, John?"

John nodded his head, looking down at his hands. "Just a little tired. I mean, you know I just came out of surgery and the doctors told me it was almost impossible to work around my ribs." John paused and took a deep shaky breath, "I could have died, Sherlock. I could have died on that table. I…" John started to cry. Tears ran down his face and then he quietly sobbed. He brought his hand towards his face, trying to cover up his tears.

Sherlock knelt next to the bed and pulled John's hand away from his face. He laced his fingers into John's and just held his hand. No words were exchanged between the two for several minutes.

John laughed, "God, bloody hell. Sherlock, I'm sorry. This is embarrassing. For both of us."

Sherlock smiled. He looked at John and just smiled. John returned the gesture as the last of his tears ran down his face.

"I'm glad you're okay," Sherlock said quietly as he closed his eyes.

"Me too, Sherlock. Me too." With that, John squeezed Sherlock's hand and closed his eyes.

 **Author's Note: Thanks so much for reading the second chapter of Are You Feeling Okay?. A review would be greatly appreciated! If you want to be alerted when I post a new story, you can follow my story of me as an author! Thanks again!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hello everyone! I'm so sorry for not posting, but I have had no time to write! :( Please forgive me! SO this is Chapter 3 and I'm pretty happy with how this one turned out. Please comment your thoughts in the reviews section and follow my story if you would like to be alerted when a new chapter is published! Thank you and please enjoy!**

John had been in the hospital for a total of four days now and he was growing quite weary. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in ages, his muscles were stiff, and the bath was just out of reach. On the upside, he was definitely healing quickly, but fractured ribs took time and he was getting tired of waiting. Sherlock hadn't left his side since the first night. John had urged his flatmate to go back to 221B and get some rest, but the impossibly stubborn man had said he wasn't tired and he didn't want the nurses to mess anything up. John hadn't argued with Sherlock, partly because he knew it was useless and part of him didn't want to be left alone. He came to realize the quiet hospital room allowed for far too much time for his wandering thoughts.

Although he had time to think, John desperately tried to avoid replaying his experience with Moran and Moriarty, but when the lights faded out and he drifted asleep those nights played through his head over and over again. The blood and water rushed back to him and he would jolt awake with a gasp of air. Frantically, he would try to orient himself and always found that he wasn't being tortured, but the memories couldn't be shaken. He would sit in the bed and shake until he was able to calm himself down and fall asleep again, but he could never seem to stay asleep. Another nightmare would plague his head and the vicious cycle would repeat itself.

Now, John sat in the hospital bed, his arm extended towards one of the nurses who was struggling with his IV. She kept missing the puncture site and he was beginning to grow quite irritated with her inability to properly perform this basic task. _John, you're starting to sound like Sherlock._

"It helps if you're a little more forceful with the needle. Really punch it in there," John said to the nervous girl, "Trust me, I know."

The nurse's pretty, green eyes grew wide. Her smooth, red hair was pulled back in a long ponytail and her cheeks flushed as she focused her eyes back on John's puncture site, "Have you had problems with an IV before, sir?"

"No. Not normally. Just take your time. I swear it doesn't hurt too badly." John kept his eyes trained on her face. A small piece of her hair fell into the nurse's eyes and he had to resist the urge to push it back behind her ear, "What's your name?"

Her eyes shifted back to John, "Clary." She shoved the IV back into John's arm and readjusted the machines beside his bed, "You live in London, Dr. Watson?"

"I do," John said as he smiled at Clary. She was quite pretty. Her green eyes glistened and her smile lit up the dull room.

She blushed a little and bit her bottom lip. Her awkwardness seemed to only add to her charm, "What brought you here then? You seem like the type to stay out of danger."

"Oh really? I seem like the type to 'stay out of danger'?" John was baffled by the irony of Clary's statement, "I was an army doctor deployed in Afghanistan. Danger is kind of what my life revolves around."

Clary turned to adjust the IV bag and she started to reorganize the seating arrangement, which Sherlock had destroyed to accommodate for his long legs. John chuckled as he imagined his flatmate returning to see his chairs messed up.

Clary cleared her throat and turned back to face John, "If, you know, ever have any free time maybe we could grab a drink or something?"

John was taken aback by her forwardness. It took most woman a little longer to drum up the courage to ask him on a date.

"I assume you already have my contact information, so it's useless to write my number on your hand?"

Clary laughed and rolled her eyes, "I should probably go, you know, take care of some other patients."

"Oh, I'm not your only one?" John responded teasingly.

Clary playfully rolled her eyes, "No, I wish." Their eyes locked together for a few seconds. Her eyes reminded John of Sherlock's and how when the light hit them just right they glimmered or how they lit up when a really good case was brought to him or when he was running through the streets for his life, John right at his side.

Before John could think any more about his flatmate, the door slowly creaked open and a tired Sherlock stood in the doorway. _Speak of the devil._ His tired eyes turned to stone when he saw Clary and they swept over the two of them. John could see Sherlock working out the situation and he became slightly annoyed. Did he have to look at everything with such precision? God, it was like living with a walking computer. John gave Sherlock the stop-thinking-what-you're-thinking look and Sherlock responded with a devilish smirk, only his eyes weren't playful. It was kind of creepy.

Clary quickly said something that John didn't catch and headed for the door leading to the hallway. Sherlock didn't budge to let her out so she had to squeeze between the consulting detective and the left side of the threshold. As she left, she shot John a puzzled look and quickly walked down the hallway.

Once John was sure she was gone, he started talking, "That was a bit rude. You could have at least moved."

Sherlock shot John a very unpleasant glare and paced over to John's side, "I assume you two had a nice chat." Sherlock towered over John in the hospital bed and he felt like he was a maggot compared to Sherlock's tall, lanky figure. He couldn't help but gaze at Sherlock's face as he stood beside John's bedside. The low light in the room barely grazed his sharp features and he looked smooth and soft. Sherlock wasn't wearing his navy blue, knit scarf and his pale collarbones were slightly exposed.

John bit his lip and quickly shifted his eyes away from his flatmate, "Where did you run off to?"

Sherlock squinted at John and turned to throw his body back into the chair, but of course, he noticed the chairs had been moved.

"Oh how thoughtful," Sherlock said sarcastically as he moved the chairs back to where they "belonged". John rolled his eyes and the two sat in silence.

The quiet hospital room allowed for John's thoughts to resonate in his head and he tried to think of anything else, but his head brought him back to the last house. The dark rooms and the nasty remnants laying across the floor. There was something about that house that John couldn't shake. The other houses were insignificant, but John had some sort of connection to the last one. It was really starting to bug him.

"Sherlock," John paused, this was going to sound ridiculous, "Did you, did you get a…I don't know. I've had this weird feeling about the last house I was held in by Moriarty. Ever since I've been out, there's just something nagging at my brain. I, did you feel like you were connected to that house? I feel like I had been there, but I _know_ I haven't."

John turned to look at his flatmate. Sherlock's eyes were focused on a speck on the floor. He was leaning forward in his chair and he was rapidly tapping his foot on the tile. Nervous habit? John hadn't ever seen Sherlock do that, but he'd never seen Sherlock nervous so what did he know.

"Sherlock you there? Earth to Sherlock?" John waved his hand in front of the dark haired man's face.

Sherlock shook his head and placed his hands under his chin, "Thinking John."

"Did you even hear what I said?" John was starting to grow irritated with his flatmate and his ridiculous "mind palace". What the hell even was a mind palace?

"It's a method of memory enhancement which uses locations to quickly and efficiently recall information. Quite simple, John." Sherlock smirked, but he kept his eyes focused on the floor.

John scrunched his eyebrows together as he registered his friend's comment, "How the hell did you know I was thinking that?!"

He shifted his playful eyes back over to John and clasped his hands just below his chin, "You asked that question out loud."

"No, I did not!" John sat there baffled, "Did I?"

Sherlock smirked at him and immediately John knew he wasn't going crazy, "God Sherlock, you really are a pain in the arse."

That comment made Sherlock's grin grow even wider. _Pretentious child._ His eyes locked on John's and the light in his eyes slowly retreated.

The tension rose in the room as Sherlock's eyes assessed John's injuries. He wanted to look at him, but all he would see was pity in Sherlock's eyes. _Stare at your IV._ John nudged the needle and his elbow moved abruptly. John kept his eyes focused on his extraordinarily interesting elbow. After a while, he could feel himself growing sleepy, but he felt a need to stay awake and alert. Sherlock was now clicking on his mobile and the constant rate was lulling John to sleep.

He finally let his eyes shut and the cool darkness swept him away.

* * *

John woke up screaming. His eyes felt like they were bleeding and he could feel needles puncturing his skin. He quickly removed the sheets and clutched his head. He tried to control his breathing, but his tears kept rolling down his face. John tightly closed his eyes. He shuddered with every breath he took and his knees had moved closer to his head. After a few minutes, two cautious hands grabbed his own and pulled them away from his face.

Sherlock stared at him with his sliver-blue eyes but didn't say a word. His eyes conveyed everything he couldn't say with words. All of his worry and fear was displayed over his face. Sherlock was normally so closed off; it was odd to see him so raw and pure.

They both stared at each other and John could feel a slight flutter in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't hold back the silent tears as they ran down his face. First Afghanistan, now this. John couldn't seem to get away from the bad memories. He just cried. All the pent up tears flooded out and his body bobbed with each soft sob. John could feel Sherlock pull back slowly, unsure of what to do. Before Sherlock was out of his reach, John grabbed his hands and pulled his flatmate forward gently and buried his face into his shoulder. Sherlock moved his hands slowly around John, unsure of the appropriate action to take.

After a few minutes, John's tears subsided and he slowly backed into the "comfort" of the bed.

"Sorry," John said as he wiped his tears. He could feel Sherlock's eyes staring at him, deducing everything about John, reading him like an open book. He hated it, despised the man for his cold demeanor and his uncanny ability to see through everything.

"Stop looking at me like that," he said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows together, "Like what?"

John rolled his eyes, "Like you pity me. Like you wish you could change everything because Sherlock you can't. You can't do a damn thing so stop looking at me like you can." John ran his hands forcefully through his hair.

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, neither of them saying anything.

"What was it like?" Sherlock said as he broke the silence, his eyes locked on John.

He gulped, tightly closed his eyes, and suppressed the urge to scream, "Not know Sherlock. I don't even know where to start."

Sherlock shifted himself closer to John, "Just start from the beginning."

John took a deep breath and looked at Sherlock with his own menacing eyes. He really didn't want to go into the whole ordeal, but he assumed he at least owed his flatmate an explanation. He really didn't want Sherlock to find it out by "deducing" it off him either. He told Sherlock everything. Everything he'd seen in Afghanistan. He told him about his friends who had died and those who had survived. He told him how they had lost contact because interacting brought back too many bad memories. He told him about the soldiers being carried in screaming and he told him about watching them die on his table. He told him how Moriarty had played him so well. He told him how Moriarty knew just how to push his buttons. He played with his head, played with his heart. He told him how it all felt the same. Moriarty mimicked an environment and John fell for it.

After John finished, Sherlock didn't say anything, he just kept twirling the sheets through his fingers.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. He stopped twiddling with the sheets and slowly slide his hand towards John's but paused just before their fingers touched.

John slid his hand in between Sherlock's and their fingers latched together perfectly. In that moment all of the stress seemed to vanish from John's head. Friends hold each other's hands, right?

* * *

Two days from John's screaming incident, Sherlock was wheeling his friend out of the hospital. Lestrade stood casually by his car, ready to receive the two exhausted looking men. The wheelchair was carefully placed in the trunk along with all the other things Sherlock had made Lestrade bring to the hospital, while John slowly climbed into the back seat.

Sherlock hopped into the back with John and Lestrade drove back to Baker Street.

Lestrade filled the car ride with small talk and chatter about what had happened outside the hospital. Normally, he was relatively chatty, but something was bothering Lestrade. He was talking through his nerves and Sherlock could see right through it.

They arrived at Baker Street and helped John up the stairs. Everything was an obscene blur and Sherlock could feel the need to be inside his flat _now._ He could only imagine how John felt.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them when they walked in the landing. She asked an outrageous amount of questions and Sherlock could tell John was ready to be up the stairs in their flat. Lestrade made a comment directed to Mrs. Hudson about the importance of rest for John and she quickly left them alone.

John was able to make his way up the stairs, slowly and cautiously. His breathing was shaky, but he did fine. Sherlock held his breath as he followed his flatmate up the creaky old stairs. He could fall and break all of his ribs again. Sherlock definitely didn't want to go back to the small room or the beeping machines or the nurse. No, _definitely_ not the nurse.

Finally, they reached the flat and John sat in his chair. His eyes were already closing for a nap as Sherlock grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over his friend.

John mumbled, "Thanks, Sherlock."

A small smile spread over his face. They were finally home and now that Sherlock thought about it, he could use a nap too.

Lestrade cleared his throat and motioned him towards the door. He was nervous, but Sherlock couldn't gather what exactly was making him seem on edge.

Sherlock retreated into the hallway and Lestrade followed. He closed the door behind him. So this was something he didn't want John to hear. He tilted his head and tried to convey his thoughts without speaking, _what was so important that you had to close the door?_

After a few moments of silent staring, Lestrade finally spoke, "Are you going to go after Moriarty?"

Sherlock was taken aback by Lestrade's random question, "Of course. Why wouldn't I?" Sherlock could feel the anger rising in his chest because he knew, he _knew_ this was some kind of "intervention" about going after consulting criminals.

"I just…don't think it would be the best idea to go after him right after you just survived _two_ of his murder attempts." Lestrade looked at Sherlock as if he was directly speaking to a viper, cautious and scared of the bite to follow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You can't be serious? Why _wouldn't_ I try and find him? He won't be expecting me to come after him so soon. We're ahead of the game Lestrade, don't you see?"

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and then shook his head, "Sherlock, I'm begging you. Don't pursue Moriarty on your own now. When John is completely healed then we'll tackle this situation together, but right now John needs you. Please, just promise me you won't go looking for him."

"Lestrade, the longer we wait, the more our chances of finding him decrease. Have you learned anything in your years of detective work?" Fury ran over Sherlock. How could Lestrade try and stop him from delivering justice where justice should be served? He was having a hard time _not_ punching Lestrade in the face. You know because that's what true friends to do.

"Boys keep it down. All your bickering is going to disturb poor John. He needs his beautiful sleep with all those cuts and bruises on his face," Mrs. Hudson said with a surprising sense of aggression.

Sherlock reluctantly lowered his voice, but kept the fury in his tone with gritted teeth, "I will not allow Moriarty to get away with this. Lestrade, let me do this. It's the only thing I can do."

Sherlock softened his demeanor, trying to improve his chances of getting Lestrade to agree with him. He could see the conflicting emotions running over Lestrade's face. Weighing the pros and cons in his head, determining the risk, worrying about John.

"We'll talk about this later."

Sherlock watched as Lestrade dropped down the steps towards the landing. He pauses at the door, "Sherlock, look after him. John's strong, but what he's gone through…it does things to people." Lestrade shakes his head, "I don't know if he'll ever be the same." And then he's gone.

Sherlock stands at the top of the stairs. _"Look after him."_ Sherlock had never, in his whole life, had such a giant responsibility looming over him. He wasn't a doctor (although he did know the basics, medicine was more complicated than that), he wasn't a care giver either, and he sure as hell wasn't someone to look after a mental and physically unstable person. For a split second, he considered someone else coming to watch over John, but he refused to allow anyone else have access to their flat. It was too dangerous. Moriarty could use one of his loyal followers to act as a trusted "nurse" and trick both of them into believing they were safe.

It was a mess and he wasn't even thinking of John's mental stability. That was a whole other ordeal. Sherlock knew he had nightmares, but those were from Afghanistan. What _exactly_ had happened to John overseas?

Sherlock opened the door that lead into their flat. It creaked as he stepped inside and he cringed at the possible fact of waking up John. God, why was he being so _considerate_? He was starting to wonder if his "don't care" demeanor had worn off, but his friend had just been in the hospital and operated on so he assumed there was some room for acts of kindness. Sherlock rolled his eyes at himself.

He walked into his room, changed into his pajamas, and threw his blue night gown on. He slowly crept back into the living room where John was fast asleep and plopped down in his chair with a book about the human brain and how to dissect it properly (at least that's what Sherlock would have titled it). Quickly, he found himself closing his eyes as he read. Odd. He didn't need sleep. Maybe it was the combination of the low lighting and the fact that for the past week his bed had been an uncomfortable hospital chair. Sherlock desperately tried to stay awake, but the words started to blur on the page so he decided to head to his own bed and rest for the morning. He left his door wide open, just in case John needed something.

Sherlock wrapped himself in the warm sheets of his queen sized bed. He closed his eyes and let his exhaustion take him far away from his current problems.

* * *

Sherlock couldn't seem to stay asleep. He was exhausted when his head hit the pillow, but now he couldn't turn off his brain. Maybe it was the act of sleeping, or maybe he really wasn't tried, or maybe, just maybe he couldn't stop thinking about Moriarty. He couldn't help but hear his slithering voice feeding John the truth. He couldn't help but imagine what happened in that house. He could hear his friend's piercing screams as Moriarty cut through his skin. Sherlock couldn't stand the thought. He threw back the sheets, stood up, and took two long strides to open the door of his bathroom.

For the first time in weeks, he saw his reflection and it wasn't pretty. His hair was more unruly than usual and he _looked_ awful. His eyes were droopy and his dressing gown couldn't seem to stay on his shoulder. Good thing he hadn't _really_ been out in public; he couldn't imagine anyone seeing him looking like a bum.

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. His head sorted back through everything that had happened in the past two weeks. Why was this happening? He had been able to hide his secrets so well and with a flick of the wrist Moriarty was able to tear Sherlock's walls down. It wasn't even the whole "drug" ordeal that made him dizzy, but it was what John didn't know. He didn't know that Sherlock hadn't _just_ spent nights in drug houses, but with more sinister roommates. He didn't know what happened to anyone who crossed Sherlock's path. He didn't know the truth. And that's what scared him the most. If John ever found out, his view of Sherlock would be completely altered. What mattered the most in Sherlock's life would be gone. Shattered by his own doing.

The water ran through Sherlock's hands and he splashed several handfuls on his face, trying to calm his anxiety. Sherlock had been so caught up in his own thoughts, he didn't even notice that John had snuck into the dark room and plopped himself on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock looked up as he heard a soft mumble from his flatmate. He could see John curled up on his side, facing the bathroom door through the reflection of the mirror.

"John?" Sherlock turned around and paused in the doorway, "What are you doing?"

He was laying on his back, eyes closed and he almost looked peaceful. "I couldn't sleep and I thought it was because of the uncomfortable chair."

Sherlock could almost feel the smirk in John's voice, "Oh please, I can only imagine how uncomfortable your plush-"

He was interrupted by his flatmate's quiet laugh, "Shut up, Sherlock." John sighed and rolled over leaving enough room for Sherlock to sleep on the other side of the bed.

The detective just stood there, frozen in place, trying to figure out where he was supposed to sleep. John had obviously shifted himself over to provide room for Sherlock. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity before he finally grabbed his clothes, changed into his suit, grabbed his coat from the back of his door, and disappeared out of 221 B into the streets of London.

* * *

John woke to the light sound of rain drops dripping on the roof of his flat. The quiet sound was peaceful and he could feel himself slowly falling back asleep. Unfortunately, his brain was already awake and no matter how peaceful his surroundings were, there was no going back.

He slowly opened his eyes again and realized he was actually in…Sherlock's room? How in the world did he get in here? He tried to remember what happened last night, but he couldn't recall anything that would have caused him to retreat into Sherlock's bed. This was weird and John was uncomfortable with the idea of sharing a bed with his flatmate.

John slowly pulled himself out of bed. He sat on the edge, collecting his thoughts before he braved the new day. John slowly expanded his lungs and winced at the slight pain in his ribs. He was getting better, but it was a slow process. He wanted to move on from this point of his life, but with Moriarty still alive, neither one of them would be safe. Sherlock liked to think he was indestructible, but they wouldn't stand a chance.

He quickly tried to think of something else. He slowly stood from the bed and walked over to the bedroom door. He paused and curled his hand around the doorknob. What was he going to say? John had never been nervous around Sherlock. He wanted to ask Sherlock why he had ended up in his bed, but did he really want to talk about it? Would he be mad? John couldn't imagine Sherlock becoming angry over a _lack_ of sleep, but he never knew. Why was everything so weird lately?

Finally, John opened the door and glanced into the lounge. A fire was crackling and John could smell something…burning? Ah hell, what had Sherlock done? John walked into the kitchen. A slight pain rose through John's abdomen, but luckily he was able to stop himself from clutching his own ribs and the pain disappeared almost as soon as it had arrived.

He peered around the wall and saw Sherlock standing in front of the cooker. His hair was a mess and he had safety goggles strapped over his eyes. John couldn't tell what the hell Sherlock was doing, but he knew it could be a dangerous experiment. He didn't want flesh-eating acids spilled down his front, so he approached his dark-haired friend carefully.

He made his way around the kitchen table and clutched Sherlock's arm, "What are you doing, Sherlock?" Instead of looking at whatever was on the cooker, John's eyes gravitated towards Sherlock's. His silver-blue eyes were dark and heavy like he hadn't slept in days. After seeing his friend, John wondered how he looked.

Sherlock smiled nervously at John and the whole situation seemed to fall away as John turned his head toward the cooker…

"Did you…make breakfast?"

 **Author's Note: Thank so much for reading Chapter 3 of _Are You Feeling Okay?_ Reviews would be greatly appreciated and if you would like to be notified when I post a new chapter please follow my story and me as an author! THANK YOU! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hello everyone and welcome back to my story Are You Feeling Okay?. Sorry for the long wait but this chapter took longer than I thought it would, but I wanted to make it the best it could be! Thank you again for continuing to read my story. It means the world to me that so many people read my work. Enjoy the story!**

"Did you make…breakfast?"

Sherlock glanced back at the cooker and noticed the oatmeal was starting to burn. _Damn it,_ he thought as he grabbed the handle of the smoking pot and threw it on the counter.

Sherlock fumbled with the oatmeal, his nose crinkled in disgust, "I was just trying to make you breakfast so you wouldn't have to do it yourself…" he trailed off as his eyes locked with John's. His flatmate's blue eyes shimmered in the little morning light that the clouded sky provided.

He was grinning like a mad man. "I never thought I'd see the day Sherlock Holmes attempted to cook edible food." John started laughing and Sherlock just stared at him with annoyed squinted eyes. He just burned their breakfast; John was being ridiculous.

John contained his laughter by clutching his lips tightly together, "Stop," John said as he playfully shoved Sherlock's shoulder, "Don't be so down about it. So what? You burned some shitty oatmeal." He continued to laugh and Sherlock couldn't help but smile at his flatmate.

John seemed fine like nothing had happened at all. The only evidence that remained were the fading bruises. His eyes were bright and his lips were soft and smooth. Sherlock just wanted to kiss him. He could do it now. Just grab his face and connect their lips together. He could almost feel John's face blush against his own and he could feel his hands in his hair and…

"Sherlock? You there?"

Sherlock was jolted back from his fantasy and violently placed back into reality. The oatmeal was still burnt, the rain was still falling and he still hadn't kissed John, but he sure as hell wasn't going to do that now.

"I was just thinking." Sherlock flicked on the kettle and let the water start to boil as John dumped the burnt oatmeal in the waste can.

"Not surprising. You're always thinking." John settled in at the table and picked up the newspaper Mrs. Hudson had brought in.

Sherlock poured the tea and adjusted the two cups to their own taste. He sat across the table and placed John's mug in front of him.

Sherlock watched John as he drank his tea and read the paper. His face was scrunched as he read the opinion column. Occasionally, he would make a noise of distaste and flip the paper around and continue reading.

They sat in silence and enjoyed the quiet morning. The sun started to rise behind the blanket of grey covering London, but the light rain continued to fall. Sherlock brought his feet up from the floor, placed the soles of his feet in the chair, steepled his hands under his chin, and retreated back into his own head.

He sorted back to the day John went missing. He thought about everything that had happened and tried to find something that would lead to Moriarty. Everything was a mess and he couldn't seem to sort through the pit of information. Instead, he let his head retreat even farther into the abyss. The pool scene filled his head; Sherlock could practically taste the chlorine on the tip of his tongue. Moriarty's words slithered through his mind and he could feel the consulting criminal's breath glaze against his skin. He could feel his body shiver and the hairs on his neck stand up.

Slowly, he progressed further and further back. Back to the days where his head was always soaring. Back to when he had suppressed a violent urge. Back when he lived with the guilt.

Sherlock found himself standing in his brother's apartment, his hair unwashed, his eyes beady from the high, his head swimming in information. He could hear his brother's name leave his mouth and a much younger Mycroft paced down the stairs in confusion. As his brother came closer, Sherlock turned around to a slightly cracked open door. He peered at the inside and a green, open field lay before him. He pushed through the door and saw his younger self and his father standing before a target. His hands were extended and a black gun was pointed out towards the never ending field. He fired the gun and his aim was dead on. Sherlock turned around before he could see what was to happen next. He ran towards the door and dove back into the hallway of his brother's apartment as the bullets ripped through the wood of the door. He could hear the voices softly murmur in his head. They got louder and louder and soon Sherlock could feel himself screaming.

Before he could go any further, Sherlock opened his eyes and returned to reality. He was still sitting in the kitchen, but John had his hands clasped around his face, his eyes wide with worry. He kept repeating his name, but Sherlock shoved him off, confused at what he had just experienced, and leapt for his bathroom.

He slammed the door shut and fumbled with the water faucet, trying to summon the water from inside the pipes.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what are you doing?" There was a long pause and then the doorknob squeaked as John opened the door. "Sherlock, what happened?"

Sherlock could feel his flatmate's nervous energy rolling off of him. He took a deep breath and squeezed the sink, feeling as if he could shatter it with his force. Suddenly, John's hand rested in the middle of Sherlock's back. He tensed at the sensation of his touch and John quickly pulled his hand away.

"Just," Sherlock started to talk but his voice faltered, "Just leave me alone." He tried to soften his voice but the words still seemed aggressive.

"Sherlock, I-", John said before he was cut off.

"John. Please just…leave me alone." Sherlock could feel John hesitate. He could feel the concern and pity in John's voice. After thirty seconds of hesitation, the floorboards shifted as John left the bathroom. He could feel the cold air suffocating him as John's warmness left.

Sherlock had never been "frightened" while he was in his mind palace. Although some of his memories had always haunted him, he never allowed himself to retreat back into those dark places. What was happening to him? Ever since Moriarty had resurfaced, he had no control of what happened in his own head and it scared him. He was scared for himself. He was scared for John. He was scared for anyone that got in the way of Moriarty. He would try again while John was still healing and weak. Sherlock could feel himself panicking. He could feel his heart racing and he could feel his hands shake. _Calm down. Calm down, Sherlock._ John's soft words ricocheted through his head and suddenly Sherlock's hands weren't shaking and his breath wasn't shallow.

He stood in the front of the sink for a little while longer, refusing to look at himself in the mirror. Sherlock walked out of the bathroom and quickly dressed himself. He paced in his room with his coat swishing behind him before he braved the inevitable confrontation waiting in the lounge.

Sherlock opened his door and peered at John's chair, which was empty. He walked into the kitchen and John wasn't there either. Their flat was oddly quiet.

Instead of dwelling, Sherlock leapt down the stairs of their flat and dashed out into the streets of London. He had to do something and he knew just where to start.

* * *

John heard Sherlock leave, but he did nothing to stop the consulting detective from walking out of the flat. Sherlock had made it clear that he didn't want to be bothered. It was eerily quiet and John felt unsettled by the stillness of their flat. The rain had stopped earlier and London seemed to have fallen silent.

John picked up his mobile and started to type a message to Sherlock, _"Where did you run off to?"_ , but deleted it instead.

John had never seen Sherlock so rattled. His hands had trembled and he froze up when John touched him. He didn't know what Sherlock had seen in his own head, but if it made him freak out that much it must have taken Sherlock somewhere he had avoided for a long time. Normally Sherlock had a heart of stone, unbreakable and untouchable, but something inside him had snapped.

This was all because of Moriarty. He had done something to Sherlock; made him think about something he didn't want to. He had played with his head and Sherlock couldn't escape. What made it worse was that John couldn't directly help his friend. It was internal and John had no power over Sherlock's own head. It was complicated and raw. It was his hidden side that no one saw. Sherlock wouldn't let anyone access his hard drive, but somehow Moriarty had woven a tight web through it.

But what really bothered John was the fact that Sherlock was hiding something from him. That's what John was really scared of. Not of Moriarty and his network, but whatever Sherlock was hiding. It ran deep and it wasn't pretty.

Instead of running his head in circles, John decided to go downstairs and make a cup of coffee and write something on his blog. The flat smelt of old books and Earl Grey tea and John instantly missed Sherlock. It felt empty without him prancing around the room, shouting accusations, staring off into the distance, Sherlock just being there. John could feel a slight worry crawling in his chest. Images flashed through his head of violence and death, all revolving around Sherlock. He's at the dark house, but instead of being tortured he was watching Sherlock, a knife held to his flatmate's neck slowing slitting his skin.

He pulled out his mobile and opened a new message, _Where are you, Sherlock?_ He was worried about his friend. Sherlock was not in a state to be gallivanting around London. Why hadn't he stopped him when he had the chance? Then John's phone chimed.

 _Here. –S.H._

All of the sudden, the door clicked open as Sherlock waltzed into the kitchen and set down a paper grocery bag. John peered into the entryway, stunned. Had he _imagined_ everything that happened earlier? Sherlock looked fine. His nose was slightly pink and he had his usual smirk spread over his face that hadn't been there this morning.

"Sherlock? Where did you go?"

His head shot up and he pulled out a gallon of milk from the brown bag, "I got milk."

John's mouth fell slightly open and he could feel his head trying to process what exactly was going on. "You never get milk."

Sherlock shrugged as he opened the fridge and placed the milk inside. He didn't need to say anything for John to quick understand Sherlock's motives. John rolled his eyes, "You really thought buying _milk_ was going to make me forget what happened earlier?!" He had to be kidding, right?

Sherlock's eyes suddenly shifted with his turn of perceivable emotion, going from pleasing and naïve to sharp and cunning. He stopped what he was doing and quickly approached John; he was so tall that John had to tilt his head up to look his friend in the eye or he would be practically staring at the consulting detective's crotch.

John remained speechless as Sherlock's razor sharp eyes devoured his own. He could fell his mouth fall open and a slight heat growing in the pit of his stomach. They stood there for a lot longer than what would have seemed normal, but honestly what was normal in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes?

"That's what I thought," Sherlock said as he took a few hurried steps backwards and swished his coat around him. He brushed by John and retreated back into his room. Once John heard the door close shut, he let out a breath that he had been holding for what seemed like an eternity.

What the hell was _that_? Sure, Sherlock had acted erratic and menacing before, but never while he wasn't on a case. Everything his flatmate did had a purpose, but _that_ seemed unnecessary. He barged in the flat acting as if everything was fine and then once John confronted him his personality changed. John stood there stunned. He fiddled with his phone for a few minutes, not moving an inch before he sat down in his chair. He opened up a new document and started writing.

* * *

It was two in the morning and John couldn't sleep. His chest hurt like hell and he had an awful headache and he was pretty sure he just overdosed on his painkillers. He moved his hands over his chest, feeling his beating heart. His fingers ran over his spider-like scar that spread across his skin. John closed his eyes tightly, blocking the tears from rolling out. He could hear the bullet rip through his flesh and he could feel himself seize up as his body hit the dusty soil. He could hear the echoes of his name rattling through his head. He could feel himself being placed upon a table and he could feel another doctor pulling at his skin. He wanted to scream, but his vocal chords seemed to have been demolished.

Suddenly, John lurched in his bed. His breathing was short and heavy and sweat glistened above his brow. He must have fallen asleep, dammit, why couldn't he _stay_ asleep? John threw himself back into his pillow and shifted himself around his bed trying to find a comfortable position. Just as he settled in, his phone chimed.

 _You've got to be kidding me,_ John thought as he grabbed his mobile from his nightstand.

He clicked it on and was instantly showered in a harsh ray of light, _Are you still up? –SH_

John rolled his eyes, _No. Trying, though._

 _Me too. –SH_

John huffed. Sherlock, sleeping? What had the world come to, Sherlock Holmes didn't _need_ sleep; he was a machine made to deduce the world's most sensitive problems in one go.

 _Oh really? The great Sherlock Holmes is trying to get some shut-eye?_

John's phone hadn't chimed for several minutes and he found himself clicking on the screen and checking his inbox even though he knew there would be no new messages.

 _Can I come up? –SH_

John's eyebrows furrowed, Sherlock come up to _his_ room? It was an absurd idea. Why did he want to come up here anyway? It was cold and small; Sherlock had it much better downstairs. Before he could reply back, John's door creaked open and Sherlock stood in the doorway. His eyes were droopy and he looked sad. His hair was sticking out every which way and his night gown was slipping off of his left shoulder. He looked like a little kid.

"What are you doing? I was trying to sleep."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took two steps towards the foot of the bed before he hesitated. A look of uncertainty spread across his face, but before John could say anything, Sherlock climbed into his bed.

"Sherlock, what the hell?! We aren't having a fucking sleepover!" John said as his propped himself up on his elbow.

Sherlock's back was facing John as he uttered, "Language, John."

"Oh shut up." The air in the room suddenly became a lot warmer as John stared at his flatmate in _his_ own bed. His slender frame seemed to sink into his mattress and his dark, curly hair spread across the pillow. Sherlock's breathing was even and deep; he seemed as if he was about to fall asleep. John rolled his eyes, _Bastard_ , as he slowly sunk into his own pillow.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time before he finally rolled over, "Sherlock, what's going on?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said with sleep laced through his words.

"What's been going on with you? You've been acting strange lately and I don't know why."

Sherlock sat up quickly and whipped around towards John, his eyes sharp like knives. "John, I am not some sort of broken toy you can put together and write about on your blog. There are some things I don't feel a need to share and this just happens to be one of them. For goodness sake's John, you were the one who was _tortured_ but do you see me asking you about that?!" Sherlock shot out of the bed and turned back around to yell at John some more.

"You know what, Sherlock, I was the one who was tortured and it would have been nice to talk to someone, but I guess that's too much to ask of now isn't it?" John slowly walked over to his flatmate, fire still building in his voice. He wanted to punch him in his perfect face. God, he could be so dramatic.

"You're the one who refused to see a therapist! Said you didn't 'need' one and it was 'fine'."

John was fuming now, "I didn't want to talk to a fucking therapist; I wanted to talk to my best friend who was there, who saw what it was like, who understood! That's all I wanted, Sherlock! Was that too much to ask?"

Sherlock's defensive features slowly melted into a look of shock. His grey eyes locked onto John's and his pink lips were slightly parted open. He looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came out of his mouth.

Before any more offensive words were uttered, Sherlock walked out of John's room and quickly fled to his own. John heard the door close behind his flatmate, loud enough to let him know that Sherlock didn't want to be disturbed.

John's room felt empty without Sherlock's loud presence. After a few minutes of wondering if he should go apologize, John decided to just go to sleep. Sherlock Holmes had already caused him enough pain, he didn't need any more rejection.

* * *

Sherlock shut the door behind him and sunk onto the floor, his head pressed against the door. _My best friend_. That's what John had said. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be anyone's best friend, let alone John Watson's. Sherlock put his hands on his face as his guilt riddled itself through his head. He hadn't even realized John may have wanted to talk to _him_. Of all of the things Sherlock was, he was not someone to talk about other people's feeling. He would be a terrible therapist. What really punched Sherlock's buttons was how John addressed him; he was a friend and nothing more. Part of Sherlock wanted to believe that somewhere inside of John there was a bigger place for himself. God, he sounded ridiculous.

Sherlock sat beneath his hanging coat for hours. Before he knew it, his clock read six in the morning so he got up, pranced into the kitchen, and put the kettle on. He pulled down two mugs; one for himself, one for John.

When he turned back to retreat into his black chair, John was standing in the opening. He was wearing a white t-shirt, his black night gown, and boxer shorts. Sherlock froze in place. His flatmate's mouth opened wide as he yawned and his eyes glazed over Sherlock's.

The two men stood in silence as the events from last night washed over the two to of them. The yelling, the harsh words, all of it fueled the tension in the room. John walked to the opposite side of the kitchen, not uttering a word to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned back around as the kettle clicked off and poured himself a cup of tea. He could hear John behind him. He was being obnoxiously loud and Sherlock had to refrain from turning around and telling him to be quiet.

The toaster dinged and John pulled out his toast. Sherlock watched his flatmate out of the corner of his eye as he bobbled his tea bag in his mug. John violently plopped in his chair and started eating his toast. Sherlock stared at John's light blonde hair, his stupid blonde hair.

Sherlock dumped an absurd amount of sugar in his tea.

"You know that will kill you, right?" John said in response to Sherlock's preferred amount of sugar as he read the paper.

Sherlock strode over to his chair, set his tea down, and adjusted his night gown before flopping in his own chair. He crossed his legs and stared back at John, his eyes ripping through his flatmate's. John squirmed a little in his seat as the two locked eyes; Sherlock smirked.

John leaned back in his chair uncomfortably without breaking eye contact. Something was wrong; his face was pale white and his eyes were dazed over. John seemed to seize up in his current position and he let out a small, sharp breath of air.

"John?" Sherlock stood up quickly as his flatmate slowly lifted himself out of his chair. He was only able to stand up for a few seconds before his knees buckled. He caught himself on the arm of the chair and let out a scream.

Sherlock rushed to John's side and placed his hands against his flatmate's shoulders. John gripped Sherlock's hands and their eyes locked together, "I'm fine, Sherlock."

John didn't blink as his body shook uncontrollably. Sherlock quickly backed away and watched as John's body tightened and shook. He fumbled with his mobile and dialed the emergency line.

A woman picked up and Sherlock told her the situation, their address, a small bit of John's medical history and an ambulance was on the way.

 **Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading Chapter 4! What about that fight, huh? Please leave a review to let me know what you like about my story. As always, thank you so much and follow my story if you want to be notified when I update!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: This chapter has been long overdue, and I'm so happy to put this one out there. I have really enjoyed this chapter and I hope you do too! :) Let me know what you think by leaving a review below! It means so much that you guys not only read, but enjoy my work. 3**

 _John woke up in a pitch back room, and his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. He was lying in a small twin sized bed and pinstriped sheets covered his torso. He slowly sat up in_ the _cramped bed, which squeaked and filled the silent room with the creepy noise. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw another bed, laid out the same as his and one after that, and another one after that one, and another until the black void swallowed the rest of the room. It was never ending. John turned to his right and the same odd scene appeared on that side too. John glanced down at his pajamas, which came up to the middle of his forearms and his sheets didn't even cover his feet._

 _John knew exactly where he was and he couldn't ever imagine being here now. He was a grown man; this wasn't happening. This was a dream, it was a dream, it's a dream, it's just a dream, John. John's heart stared racing as he looked at all the beds; they were empty. Barren. Deserted. No one had been here for a long time._

" _It's just a dream, John."_

 _John whipped around to see a dark-haired boy sitting on the bed beside him, his backside facing him. The boy hadn't been there before. John had looked; no one was sitting in that bed._

" _Who the hell are you?" John's hands stared to tremble and he had to squeeze them to make the shaking stop._

 _The boy chuckled, "Language, John. Head mistress doesn't like curse words." His voice was playful yet menacing. John only knew one person who could pull that off._

 _Just as the thought crossed his mind, the boy turned around. Oh it was definitely a younger version of his consulting detective. God, he really hadn't aged. His eyes were still that mesmerizing silver, his cheekbones the same defined sharpness, his slender white fingers still fiddling with the things around him._

" _You…you weren't here a second ago. You're not an orphan, Sherlock; I've met your parents." John got up from his bed and walked over towards young Sherlock._

 _Sherlock smiled his wicked half smile, "John, this is a dream. You're dreaming and I'm here because you wanted me here. You can change all of this if you wanted. Create something entirely different."_

 _John just stood there and stared at Sherlock in astonishment. Of course, he was dreaming. This was the orphanage John had lived in for the latter half of his adolescent life. His parents' deadly car crash had landed him here. John instantly became overwhelmed. As he thought more and more about the orphanage, little things changed around him. Details that he had forgotten quickly came back as he allowed this dark part of his life to rise to the surface._

" _Neat, huh?" the dark-haired boy said as he retreated to the other end of the hallway that had now cemented into a full fleshed out room._

 _John turned to look at his friend, astonished at what he was seeing. He knew this was all happening in his head, but that didn't change anything. It felt…real. If John would have known Sherlock as a kid would things be different? Would they still live at Baker Street? Would they still solve crimes?_

 _Sherlock opened the door that lead to the all too familiar hallway. He turned around underneath the doorframe and put his pale pointer finger against his lips, telling John to be quiet. Then he was gone._

John slowly opened his eyes as his odd dream faded in the background. The bright lights above shown in his face. He sat up in the cramped hospital bed. This time he didn't have his own room, but a curtain divided his small space from the rest of the patients in the room. A few hushed voices chattered to his right and a doctor was talking unnecessarily loud to his left. John sighed and laid his head back against the flat pillow.

Suddenly, the curtain was pulled back and a tall woman took two steps into John's "room" before she practically ran into the foot of the bed.

"Damn these things are so small." She stared writing on her clipboard for a while without saying anything, "So Doctor Watson, it seems that you suffered a seizure earlier today."

John nodded. He hadn't remembered a lot of what had happened but he could gather it was a seizure. "Yes, and it was caused by my PTSD and I need to go see a therapist and I need to talk about my feelings and…" he trailed as the doctor glared at him. She shot him a I-know-what-you're-doing look and started writing again.

"Here," she handed him a stark white business card, "therapist. Call her up; she's good."

John stared at the card not really reading any of the information. John had been to therapists before and he tried. He really had tried, but nothing seemed to help. Talking about his feelings was not his area.

John glanced up and gave the doctor a meaningless smile, "Thank you. I'll give her a call."

The doctor nodded, turned around, pulled aside the curtain, and walked out, not giving John a second glance. John let his smile drop from his face and aimed the business card into the trash can. Like a therapist could help him now.

John didn't want to think about the whole ordeal. He didn't need a therapist. John had been to war for Christ's sake and he had been fine afterwards. Okay maybe he hadn't been _fine_ , but once he met Sherlock his life had changed. He had changed him in ways John probably wouldn't ever understand.

God, Sherlock Holmes. What had happened to make him wind up with the only consulting detective in the world. How had he gotten here? Sitting in a hospital bed, having doctors consult his problems, waiting for a man who would never show. Waiting for the man who got him into this mess in the first place. God, he was waiting for an unfeeling arsehole. That's what Sherlock Holmes was. An arsehole. Not the world's only consulting detective. Not a clever puzzle solver. An arsehole.

He hated him. He hated the way he analyzed people. He hated the way he calculated everything like a machine. He hated the way he took people's breath away. He hated how he always flipped up his coat collar and tried to look cool. He hated his smug smile and he hated his damn cheekbones and he hated his blue eyes and he hated his hands…and then John realized he didn't hate any of these things.

He realized that he loved Sherlock Holmes, and John didn't know how he was supposed to felt about that.

* * *

Sherlock was still dressed in his night gown at three o'clock in the afternoon; there seemed to be no point dressing up. He was stretched out across the couch, waiting for John to come downstairs.

John had locked himself in his room for the whole day. He hadn't even come down for lunch. Sherlock would have been worried, but he assumed John was just tired from the hospital. Though it had been three days since the pair had retreated back to the comfort of their flat. Neither of them had uttered a word to each other since the exhausting hospital visit. Sherlock didn't know anything about what had happened, except the small bit of information the doctor had given him; John was suffering with PTSD and should seek help immediately. But he hadn't. He had sat in his room for the past few days doing God knows what.

A sharp click sounded as John opened his door upstairs. Sherlock could hear his flatmate slowly descending down the stairs, but he hesitated before the threshold, neither of the two men able to see each other. Slowly, John moved into the room. His eyes were turned away from Sherlock and his hands were clenched at his side.

Sherlock could feel his throat close as his eyes glazed over John. His shirt was skin tight and his boxers were a little…short, for a lack of a better word. Now that Sherlock thought about it, he couldn't remember the last time anyone in 221 B had done laundry, therefore John had decided to resort to his "backups".

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock quickly stood up from his chair, "Laundry needs to be done!"

There were a few seconds of silence before her voice echoed through the stairwell, "I've already started a load, Sherlock!"

Surprised, Sherlock turned back around to John, who was standing in the same spot with the same dazed look on his face. "John?"

He shook his head as he glanced up at Sherlock, "Yeah?"

Sherlock couldn't find any words worth saying, "I uhhh, I don't remember what I was going to say." He turned his back towards John, trying to pull himself together. God, it wasn't that hard.

"I think I should see a therapist."

Sherlock whipped around, his night gown falling off his shoulder, "What?"

John knocked his head into the wall and rolled his eyes, "I said…"

Sherlock flung his hands in some sort of wild gesture, "I heard what you said, John." His flatmate's silver grey eyes were vulnerable and dreary. Sherlock could almost see the storm clouds rolling behind John's eyes. He looked like he was going to burst into tears any minute.

They stood on the opposite sides of the room, but Sherlock could feel the weight John was bearing on his shoulders. He was going to crumble and there would be no one to catch him fall.

"I'm not okay, Sherlock. I'm not okay and I don't know what to do." He turned and walked into the kitchen for no other reason than to stabilize himself against the countertop.

Sherlock slowly paced up behind John, "I don't know if I would be any help."

John chuckled at Sherlock's remark, "Of course not. I'm too far gone for you to help me."

"John, I…" Sherlock hesitated, the words seemed to resonate at the back of his throat, "I know what it's like."

John was still turned around, facing the cabinets.

"You don't get it, do you Sherlock?" John turned around, a dangerous smirk spread across his face, "You don't get it. You weren't there. You weren't in the war and you weren't with Moriarty. Don't even act like you know what I've gone through." Anger laced John's words. His eyes were no longer the soft blue Sherlock had seen a few minutes ago, but hot fire blazed and flickered against the afternoon light.

"John, I didn't mean it that way…" Sherlock wasn't able to finish his sentence before John leapt at him. His hands wrapped in Sherlock's shirt as he slammed him up against the doorframe. Sherlock couldn't help but look at his eyes. He saw all the anger and emotion, but what made him stop in his tracks was the pureness locked away in John's eyes.

John shoved him into the door frame, pinning him like an animal, "You don't understand." John released Sherlock but didn't move an inch. "Don't act like you will _ever_ understand what I went through."

John's eyes welled with tears as his anger left his face, "Just leave me alone." He released Sherlock and retreated up the stairs. His door slammed shut.

Sherlock stood up against the doorframe in shock. He had never seen John Watson so furious and it sacred him. Something had happened to John in that house. He was no longer the calm, cool, collected army doctor that had waltzed into his broken life. He was damaged. So incredibly damaged.

Sherlock breathed in the London air as the wind ripped through the city's streets. His head was swimming in the cool air as he scanned the buildings looking for a particular address. He glanced down at the stark white business card and stopped in front of a maroon building. The door read, _Dr. Megan Smith._ This was his place.

Sherlock bounded up the steps, but paused before he rang the doorbell. If John ever found out he did this, he would probably kill him. _It's for his own good,_ Sherlock reassured himself. He took a deep breath and pressed his index finger against the rounded bell, as a buzz sounded off inside the building. It looked more like an apartment building than anything.

A woman opened the door and looked at Sherlock, confusion and recognition spreading across her face, "Um, can I help you?" Her voice rose at the end of her sentence, indicating worry spreading through her brain. Sherlock smirked; she knew who he was. _It's just an act._

"I'm a friend of John Watson…" He paused as Megan took a timid step back into her "office". Yes, she knew exactly why he was here.

"Sherlock Holmes, you have a lot of nerve coming here. Your brother wouldn't be happy to find out you know about this place."

Sherlock maintained eye contact, "He already knows. Why do you think John Watson's file is here? He isn't exactly a threat to national security. Is he?"

Megan smiled as she opened the door wider and beckoned Sherlock into her flat. He glanced around her foyer, picking out bits and pieces of her "business" _and_ personal life. So, this was a home office, and by her limited amount of personal décor gave away her "homey" mask. She was trying to make her "patients" feel at home, but nothing about her set up felt natural. Sherlock smiled at the perfectly concealed ruse. To a blind eye, it would have seemed normal, but to Sherlock's trained eyes it screamed fake.

"If you're going for a reassuring environment, you should consider adding a more," Sherlock paused as he saw Megan had stopped in her tracks, an eyebrow cocked in interest at his potential suggestion.

"Go on."

Sherlock pointed at a few blank wall spaces, "Personal photographs. Pictures of you with patients, London scenery, things your customers would be familiar with. They want to look at you as a person, not someone who's sucking money out of their pockets to fix their problems." He turned around, waiting for a sharp sigh and an eyeroll.

Megan just narrowed her eyes. "There aren't any mics in here. You can drop the ploy." She pointed into the lounge, "They're in there. You know, they had to give me some privacy or else I'd talk. Spill all of Britain's secrets."

Without skipping a beat, Megan walked into the lounge and completely shifted her personality. No longer the snarky, reassured woman standing in the foyer, but a willing therapist trying to help a patient. She could act. Sherlock wondered if things had worked out differently, where would she be now?

Sherlock followed and quickly glanced around the room. Mycroft was in charge of this secret faculty; no wonder the place seemed fake, he had no taste. He was obsessive and would never let a man like Sherlock see through his ruse, but he didn't know people and he didn't know what they liked.

Sherlock walked into the lounge and gave it a once over. The curtains were a stark white, which complimented her brown bookshelf in an odd way that shouldn't have worked. Her desk was beautifully crafted; money, but oddly disorganized; rough personal life. No doubt something to with her drug induced past. No sense in keeping your fake professional life organized, if your real personal life was a mess. Sherlock smirked as his gazed shifted up towards the ceiling where a beautiful chandelier draped over his head. It wasn't lit; impractical source of light. Too hard to clean, not suitable, no point in burning the electricity.

Mycroft had tried _so_ hard to conceal this place in plain sight. Just a normal flat, with a normal woman, with a normal practice, but it was all so _fake_. There was nothing comforting about this room or moreover, this flat. It was slick and clean, only disorganized in certain places to play to the façade. Sherlock smiled to himself.

Megan slipped past Sherlock and he felt something slip into his pocket.

He reached around and discreetly pulled out a waded-up piece of paper, _Remember, this place is a government facility. Don't say anything illegal. Just listen to me._

Sherlock knew there were cameras inside this place, but he didn't see any obvious clues in his first visual sweep of the room. He didn't see any obvious indicators; nothing seemed to be out of place. The manila folders were everywhere. Some neatly organized, others scattered about randomly. Slowly the full effect of the façade stated to fall into place.

"Ah, here it is." Megan pulled a file from her desk, "John H. Watson."

Sherlock peered at the tab on the folder; it was blank. A duplicate. Was this really going to be so hard? He just wanted John's file and then he would leave.

He glanced around the room and wondered which files contained fake information and which ones could cause World War III. There had to be fakes scattered around. This was Mycroft's favorite filing cabinet, he would conceal all the best secrets with fake ones, trying to throw off any unauthorized criminals. Luckily, Sherlock was neither unauthorized nor a criminal. Of _all_ people, he entrusted Megan Smith to hide such top-secret information. An ex-junkie. He doubted his brother knew about his connection to this woman.

Megan walked over to the red, uncomfortable looking chair across from its identical chair, "Please sit, Sherlock Holmes."

He crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair, "I need a favor from an…old friend."

A sharp smile spread across her face, "What do you want, Mr. Holmes? And I wouldn't consider us friends."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and gave Megan a nice, manipulative smile, "I think you know exactly what I want."

Her body language completely shifted, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't act like I'm just another face. I know you would like to forget you ever knew me, but I saved your life. I need John's file. Now." She knew who he was and she knew exactly how to get what he wanted, but she was done with that part of her life, "Megan, I got you out. I helped you start this career," Sherlock paused letting his fictitious statement settle in, "if that's what you want to call being manipulated by my brother."

She gritted her teeth and spat at Sherlock, "Oh, quit playing that card. I saved you too and you know it. If it wasn't for me, you would have been overdosed in an alley somewhere. And you had nothing to do with me getting this job. Try not to take credit for things you have no part of. It's kind a dick move."

Sherlock smiled. She purposefully avoided the latter half of his statement. Mycroft couldn't do anything to him, "You know, it's impolite to have a guest and _not_ offer them any tea?"

Megan narrowed her eyes, trying to decide if giving him what he wanted was the right thing to do. She didn't know if Mycroft had authorized this exchange. The conflict in her head was evident in the way her eyes seemed to bore into his own. Mycroft purposefully didn't tell her about this "meeting" to make it so much harder for Sherlock, but in the end Megan's debt to Sherlock was undeniable.

She nodded her head back a bit, giving away the location of the camera, "I suppose that was quite rude of me." She stood up, instantly changing the mood in the room and started to walk out, but before she passed Sherlock she mouthed _hallway._

He glanced at the general location of the hidden camera that was behind Megan's chair and winked. Let Mycroft know his mistake; never underestimate Sherlock Holmes.

He stood up from the chair, swished himself into the hallway and snatched John's perfectly placed file up from the small foyer table. He waltzed out of flat and smiled. That wasn't too bad. Megan had just handed over John's past and it had been easy.

Hiding in plain sight was a fake therapist and lots of secrets. Megan wasn't a real therapist. She had never seen John; she had just seen his name on a new file that had come in. She was a resource for people who needed information that was difficult to acquire. And Mycroft had funded her, with government money. All the files stored in that inconspicuous flat could take down the most powerful people in London. Mycroft managed which files were secured in that flat so it hadn't been that hard to get John's files in a secret government filing cabinet. Just a little chat with his older brother and John's secrets were his. Now he had something over Mycroft; oh, how the tables have turned. He knew exactly how it worked and he knew how to get what he wanted from Megan.

Megan was no problem herself. Memories of her helping him with Charlie, the boy who he had hit with the bottle, resurfaced. She had helped him and he had just manipulated her to get information on his flatmate. The weight of what he had just stolen finally rested on his shoulders.

Sherlock stopped abruptly. He looked down at the file. He flipped to the first page and quickly glanced at the information. _Deployed in Afghanistan. Army doctor. Graduated from Bart's._ Basic information. Nothing new, but Sherlock flipped through the rest of the file. Therapy sessions. Medical records. Sherlock paused at a certain page in the middle of the folder. Something about it caught his eye. He quickly scanned the paper and realized it was a therapy session.

 _I think I could do it. It would be so easy. But something always happens that stops me._

 _And something has happened recently?_

 _Yeah, I guess so. I met someone. I can't even describe him, he's…god, I can't. He's something else. We're living together and I don't even know how that happened. And…wow this is absurd._

 _Are you happy, John?_

 _Yeah. You know, I think I am. I haven't felt like this in a long time._

Sherlock stood in the middle of the street staring at the page. He knew that conversation was about him. John was going down a dark path and if he hadn't met Sherlock, what would have happened to John Watson? Sherlock closed the file. He shouldn't have taken it. What was he thinking?

Sherlock quickly stuffed the file into the large inside pocket of his Belstaff coat. He needed to know John's past to understand the best way to help him. This was necessary, but he couldn't shake that therapy conversation. That was after John met him. Was he really happy? With everything that was going on?

The London sky was starting to grow dim with the setting sun. Sherlock walked down the sidewalk back to Baker Street, but before he could get two blocks down, his phone rang.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and stopped dead in his tracks. _Unknown._ He held his phone up to his ear and a slithering voice poured through his phone, "Hello sexy."

Sherlock could feel the fire burning inside his chest. Why was Moriarty contacting him? His hand trembled as he pressed his phone against his ear.

"Oh Sherlock, are you there? I guess I must have rendered the great Sherlock Holmes speechless. It's a Christmas miracle!"

The anger rose up through Sherlock's throat, "What do you want, Moriarty." The bite in his words made a few people turn and look at him. Sherlock slipped into the nearest alley.

"Not a wise move, Sherlock. You must remember. I'm. Everywhere. Not even your brother can keep you and your pet safe."

Through gritted teeth, Sherlock whispered, "I don't think my brother is particularly interested in helping me right now. But I swear, if you ever touch John Watson again I will slit your throat. I will make you bleed until there's nothing else left."

Moriarty laughed on the other side of the line, "You really think I'm scared of you, Sherlock? You haven't even been able to narrow down my location! Oh yeah, and I do know you've been trying to find me. And you know I can notify John. He'll hate you for risking your life. He really does care about you, Sherlock. Although," he paused just before he was able to finish his sentence.

Sherlock waited in anticipation, but the line was silent, "What?!"

"Oh, just that I know about your little _lovers_ spat. I'm sure John will be able to forgive you, or maybe not. I could tell him, you know. Really take the weight off your shoulders."

Sherlock's eyes widened. He tried to say something, anything, but no words left his mouth.

"Ohhh that would be good! So good! Can you imagine John's face when he learns all of your darkest secrets? And I'm not just talking about the drugs, Sherlock. I'm talking about your darkest secret. The one you're so scared of."

"No." Sherlock's mouth was now quivering and he had to brace himself against the wall so he didn't pass out, "No."

"Oh YES, Sherlock! Wouldn't that be just wonderful! Please please please please let me have the honor." His voice kept rising higher and higher with every word he spoke.

"NO." Sherlock's could feel the blood as his nails pierced his skin. _It's not real, Sherlock,_ but that was the problem, wasn't it? It was real. This wasn't a dream. It wasn't a game anymore.

"Goodbye, Sherlock. Send John my love." And with that, he killed the line.

Sherlock held his mobile up against his hear as he sunk onto the ground, the dial tone ringing in his ear. John couldn't know. He'd kept it locked up for so long and he was too busy making sure John was getting better that he hadn't been thinking about everything he was hiding.

Sherlock could feel the tears rise into his eyes as he cowered against the alley wall. He couldn't do this anymore. He had _stolen_ a part of John's life that he could never give back. He had opened that file and he had betrayed John Watson: his only friend. And John was mad at him. No, he wasn't mad; he was _pissed_ and Sherlock had just made everything worse. He had John's whole life story in his inside coat pocket.

Sherlock couldn't go back to the flat, he couldn't look at John, he couldn't tell him. He couldn't tell him he loved him. Even if Sherlock had saved John's life, that didn't excuse him stealing his flatmate's whole life story. He loved him more than anything else in the world and John could never know. It tore Sherlock apart. He couldn't do it. He couldn't go back to Baker Street.

Sherlock sat in the dark alley not knowing if hours or minutes had passed. He let himself release all the tears he had held back. Sherlock had closed himself into his own head.

 _What have I done?_

* * *

John knew something was wrong as he jolted out of a deep sleep. It was two o'clock in the morning and something didn't feel right. He could feel it inside of him. Maybe it was the fact the flat was dead silent, or maybe it was the way everything seemed to have fallen still, or maybe it was the air. John didn't know why, but something was off.

He crept down the stairs and stopped in the lounge. It was pitch black and kind of…creepy.

John shook off the feeling and slowly approached his flatmate's bedroom door. It creaked open and he peered into the room. It too was completely dark and Sherlock was nowhere to found. He had disappeared in the middle of the night before but it never felt like _this._ John just _knew_ his friend was in danger and nothing else seemed as urgent at the moment.

John searched the rest of the house just to be sure, but he knew Sherlock wasn't here.

He started to run up the stairs, but a piercing pain in his side stopped him dead in his tracks. _Fuck. I thought I was over this._ He slowly stood back up and pulled himself up to his room. He stripped his clothes and something caught his eye. Right in the spot where he had surgery, part of his stitches had come undone and a thin line of blood was dripping down his side. John cursed under his breath and grabbed his towel from this morning's shower. His hand hovered over his open wound before he soaked up the blood with the towel.

 _I'm fine, I'm fine, nothing I can't fix._ John winced as he slipped on a t-shirt and pulled on a pair of jeans. He raced down the stairs, ignoring the pain thumping against his ribcage. He threw on his jacket and braced himself as he stepped out into the cold night air.

Hell, he couldn't grab a cab; he didn't know where to go. _Shit._ Where would Sherlock go? Rain drops started to fall as John spun around searching the streets for the tall, dark-haired man with his swishing coat. Panic rose in his chest at the thought of never being able to find him. He could feel his body shake as the rain drops became heavier and his body temperature started to drop.

He could be anywhere, but the best thing to do was to start walking. The rain became heavier and heavier, but John kept the same persistent pace. He just had a feeling that Sherlock was stuck out here in the rain. He pulled out and dialed Sherlock's number. He was in such a state earlier that he had forgotten there was such a thing as cellphones.

It rang and rang and rang and then John was sent to Sherlock's voicemail, "The name's Sherlock Holmes. I probably didn't answer because I didn't want to speak to you. Unless you're John, then I'd probably want to speak to you." John could hear his voice in the background "Sherlock who are you talking to?" "No one"

The beep sounded and John pressed his hand against his mouth. _Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you._

John walked down the street, his head now swimming in chaos. _Sherlock, where are you?_

As if the universe was aligning, John passed a dark alley and a balled-up figure was propped up against the wall. _Oh, shit._

He turned down the alley and ran up to the man who was curled up. He desperately wanted in to _not_ be Sherlock. He wanted him to be safe inside the warmth of Baker Street, but as he approached he could make out Sherlock's dark hair and his favorite coat. John crouched down beside Sherlock, "Hey mate, look at me, Sherlock." He clasped his hands around Sherlock's damp face. His hair was soaking wet and so was the rest of him.

Sherlock opened his eyes, but they didn't hold his usual smugness about them; they were sad eyes, genuinely sad eyes, "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry."

"What do you have to be sorry about?"

Sherlock smiled at John's response, "You're soaking wet."

John sighed, "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock." With that, Sherlock's smile grew even wider, "Come on, Sherlock. Let's go home."

John pulled Sherlock up onto his feet, practically drug the taller man back to the sidewalk, and hailed any cabbie that was crazy enough to take two soaking wet men back home.

Once back in the warmth of their flat, John pulled Sherlock into the bathroom and made him take a warm shower. He didn't argue, but he did demand some privacy, which John could understand. He wouldn't have requested any less.

As the adrenaline rush faded, John's pain deeply rooted itself against his ribs. He stumbled into his own bathroom and pulled out his safely kit. He dug through the whole box before he found his needle and stitching thread. Peering back at him underneath the sink was a bottle of whiskey. John snatched it up too. This was going to hurt.

He moved himself into the lounge and plopped himself in his maroon chair. He adjusted his union jack pillow behind his back and stripped his shirt off. All of the stitching had come undone and his hand tremored as he pressed a patch of alcohol against his skin. John eyed the bottle and poured himself a glass. Before he knocked it back, he smiled at the memory of the first time he stitched himself up. He was seventeen, just looking for a fight and he found one. But he didn't walk out without a few cuts and bruises. When his headmistress found out she immediately drove him to the hospital, pissed. The doctor had complimented his technique and they ended up talking about medical school and residency. He had written his recommendation letter the next year. John tilted his head back and let the alcohol scream down his throat.

He threaded the needle and pierced his skin with the distilled metal. He winced as he guided the needle through the second piece of skin. _Dear god, he didn't remember it being this bad._

John heard a door creak open and Sherlock walked into the room. He looked like shit, to be honest. His hair was wet and messy, his night gown was hanging off his right shoulder, and John could see the slight resemblance of bags underneath Sherlock's eyes.

"What are you doing?!" Sherlock's question had a bit of a punch and he quickly crossed the room. He crouched down right in between his legs. "John, what happened?" Sherlock moved his shirt aside and examined his surgery line.

"It uhh…" John couldn't concentrate with Sherlock in between him like this and he felt a little bit uncomfortable without his shirt on, "It just seemed to reopen."

Sherlock took the needle out of his hand and resumed John's procedure.

"God Sherlock, do you even know what you're doing?!"

Sherlock stopped and shifted his eyes up towards John, "Really, John?" He rolled his eyes and continued stitching.

Before John knew it, Sherlock was done. He wiped his hands on the towel and rinsed his hands in the tub of water John had retrieved before.

When he was done, silence fell upon their flat. Neither one of them had to say a word. Sherlock's eyes latched onto John's and in that moment, everything that had happened faded away. His flatmate's beautiful silver eyes were wide and vulnerable. _Shit._ Sherlock slowly slide his hand closer to John's resting on the arm of the sofa. His hands were cold and slender and they moved against John's rough callused ones smoothly. Sherlock guided John's hands into his own and it felt like the universe's puzzle had finally been solved. _Shit._

John couldn't handle it. He shifted in his seat and slipped his hand out of Sherlock's, "We can't act like that never happened. In the alleyway, I mean." He turned his head away from Sherlock. He couldn't do this with him when Sherlock was hiding so much from him. He couldn't let him manipulate him. He just couldn't.

Sherlock slowly stood up, "I know we can't." Sherlock paused as if he was trying to figure out the right words, "I've been looking for some cases and I didn't want to tell you because…I don't really know why I didn't tell you. I think part of me wanted to make sure you were recovering, but part of me needed the cases."

Sherlock paused again and fiddled with his hands in front of him.

"That's what you couldn't tell me? That you wanted to go on a case?" Sherlock took another step back and John realized that his words may have been a little bit too forceful, "Sherlock, look at me."

Without moving his head, Sherlock's eyes shot up.

"I'm sorry if I made you feel like you couldn't go on a case. God, Sherlock. Really? That's what you've been hiding?"

"Yeah," Sherlock said as he raised his head, looking more in his element.

John smiled and chuckled, "God Sherlock, go on as many cases as you like. It's good for you; you can't stay in here forever."

Sherlock smiled at him, "I had been looking for some evidence in the alleyway and someone must have hit me over the top of the head."

John stood up and slipped on his shirt, "God Sherlock, are you okay?" He approached his friend and wrapped his hand around his head, checking or any blood. Nothing.

Sherlock brought his hand up to John's forearm and wrapped his hand around John's wrist, "Yeah I'm fine."

John quickly released his hand as the awkward silence settled, "Well thanks for the patch up. I'm going to catch some shut eye."

Sherlock's eyes were transfixed on John's. Their silver-blue tint flickered in the limited light of their flat. He shifted his eyes away from John and nodded his farewell, "Goodnight."

John wanted to say something, anything, but no _meaningful_ words came to his lips, "Goodnight." He turned, walked up the stairs, and slowly closed the door behind him, waiting for the door to click. He pressed his back up against the barrier between him in Sherlock.

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He was in love. How in the hell did he get here? Sherlock was not someone to fall in love with. It felt right and John's heart desperately wanted to march back downstairs, but his head told him otherwise. He couldn't say anything to Sherlock because Sherlock was hiding something. He may have just been on a case tonight, but something else was eating at him.

Before John could get his head spinning too fast, he climbed into bed and awaited the cold air to plunge him into darkness.

 **Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading chapter 5 of Are You Feeling Okay? It means so much to me. I was hoping to get this chapter out earlier, but it just didn't happen. I wish you all the best of luck while watching season 4! It's going to be interesting. Please, if you enjoyed this chapter, leave a review and follow my story! It really means the world to me! Again thank you so much!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: It's been a while! So sorry for the long wait but I've been so busy lately with school and writing was always second on my list. *sad face* Thank YOU for being patient and thank you for reading! Reviews are greatly appreciated and you can follow me as an author! Again thank you so much and sorry for the long wait! Please tell me what you think!**

John Watson woke up to the sound of the London streets coming alive. He could hear the cabs splashing through the puddles of rain from last night and the hustle of the horns raging at the other vehicles. John scoffed, cabbies never liked to share the road.

The memories from last night rushed back to him like a violent tidal wave. The rain pounding on his head, Sherlock's cold and wet body lying against the brick wall, the way his voice trembled as he denied his tears the ability to fall. His body had shuddered as he looked at his best friend curled against the wall. Sherlock walked the London streets with confidence, but that night he was weak and soaked.

John had realized in that moment that Sherlock wasn't the man he had first meet. John was always searching for some evidence that the man he was falling in love with was not able to feel the same way about him. He told himself that Sherlock wasn't like that. He didn't feel that way about anyone. And it just made it easier for John to hide the way he felt if he convinced himself that Sherlock would never feel the same. But as the days passed John wasn't so sure now. The more and more he noticed the little things Sherlock did (making tea for John, bringing him small pieces of toast, fixing his collar when it wasn't so straight) he wasn't so sure. Wasn't so sure Sherlock wouldn't feel the same. And part of him was thrilled at the thought, but the other part of him was hoping he was just seeing things. He loved this man but what if it wasn't the right thing? What if he was making a mistake?

He couldn't think about this right now. He had to stop thinking. John had always been good at closing himself off but lately, it was like a constant stream of thoughts about what his life _could_ be were spinning in his head. Why couldn't he close himself off? Why was this so hard?

What made everything worse was the nagging feeling at the back of his head telling him that Sherlock wasn't telling him everything. John understood secrets. He knew both of them had held things from each other ever since they had met. John understood why someone wouldn't share a part of who they were, but whatever Sherlock was hiding it was affecting him emotionally and physically. It had to stop because John couldn't stand by and watch Sherlock's whole life fall apart _._ He needed Sherlock to be okay. It kept him sane knowing his friend was okay.

John understood secrets because he'd been keeping _a lot_ of his own suppressed. Part of him wanted to tell Sherlock what he had seen in Afghanistan, but he couldn't. Every time the words passed through his head he had held them down. Sherlock would never understand. Would never see his side. John was a doctor but over there it was the combat that he lived for. Sometimes he would have to step in and engage in battle. It was the thrill and the blood pumping through his veins and the adrenaline that he lived for. But the weight of the things he had done settled deep in the pit of his stomach. Over there it had seemed _normal_ , but back living in a normal life the weight of what he had done was earth shattering. He couldn't forgive himself; how could Sherlock?

John pulled himself out of his dark room and threw on his night gown as he cautiously walked down the stairs. His ribs hurt and his hand-stitched wound was an ever-looming presence, reminding him of Sherlock's touch against his skin. God, he had to stop thinking about him.

He shook the memory from his head, desperately trying to calm his nerves. He could hear Sherlock bustling in the kitchen, the kettle rising in pitch as the water boiled. John's feet hit the floorboard and he cautiously paced towards the kitchen.

Sherlock was leaning against the counter, fingers flying over the keyboard of his phone.

John didn't need to say anything before Sherlock asked the most rhetorical question in Britain's history, "Tea?" He didn't skip a beat, his fingers moving at the speed of light, the blue glow illuminating his face in the low light.

"English Breakfast will do."

Sherlock turned back around still typing on his phone, poured two mugs of piping hot water, and quickly plopped the tea bags into the mugs.

He handed John his mug and John wrapped his fingers around the warmth of the ceramic.

"Thank you." John expected Sherlock to go back to his spot on the countertop and resume texting whoever was on the other side of the line, but he didn't. He stood there, his face blank, his lips slightly parted, his eyes holding the softest, most broken expression. His wheels were spinning, but his eyes never left John's face.

John stood there his eyes narrowing at his flatmate, "Sherlock?"

Instead of looking at John, he lowered his head and took several steps backward.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock swiftly waltzed past John and retreated into his room, "There's something I need to show you."

John narrowed his eyes at the back of his flatmate's head but followed instead of hopelessly trying to work through what he was up to.

Sherlock was rifling through the second drawer of his dresser.

"Please tell me there's not a dead animal in there."

Sherlock paused and rolled his eyes, "Don't be ridiculous." He resumed his rifling, pulling out all of his neatly tucked and organized socks and John kind of felt bad that he would he have to reorganize then. Before his room could become even more of a mess, Sherlock pulled out a manila folder and handed it to John.

Now he was confused, "What is this?"

Sherlock gulped, his eyes already shifting away from John, "Just…open it."

John paused, his eyes fixated on Sherlock. He wasn't making eye contact with him and his arms were crossed over his chest. "Sherlock…"

"Just open it!" His eyes shoot up and a spark fired through his tone.

John flipped to the first page and was surprised to see his face. _What was this?_ He flipped through the rest of the file. Everything. Everything was _here_. Everything about him. Exposed. It went back to when he was a child, through his teenage years, up till just a few years back.

"Sherlock, have you read this?" John said, still flipping through the file. Photographs and notes and therapy sessions and medical records.

"I've read enough." Sherlock took a few steps backward. He looked scared, tears already collecting in his eyes.

John breath quickened and his heart started to beat a little faster, "What made you think you could acquire this kind of sensitive information?" He paused. Why was this in _Sherlock's_ hands? The file was littered with all sorts of information about John. His parents dying, the orphanage, his days at Bart's, the war, therapy sessions, everything. It was here. John's hands started to shake. His eyes glazed across sheets of papers and several times he had to close his eyes before he read anymore.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe some of the things in here I have never shared with _anyone_? ANYONE, Sherlock. Did that even cross your mind? Did you even…" John's anger rippled through his throat. The tears sat on edge, waiting to fall, "Did it ever…did you ever…" That was it. That was all he was able to say before the tears streamed down his face. His chest vibrated as quiet sobs escaped his throat. He covered his eyes with his hand, trying to shield Sherlock from his breakdown.

He could feel Sherlock quietly approach him from across the room, but he hesitated right in front of him and instead laid his hand on John's shoulder. He was trembling.

John looked up at his flatmate and instantly regretted it. His eyes were red and pools of tears lingered in his eyes. Sherlock didn't even have to say the words. _I'm sorry._ A lone tear ran down his face and fell to the floor.

He was mad at Sherlock, but he couldn't be too mad because this was a blessing in disguise. He needed to tell Sherlock, but he knew himself. If Sherlock hadn't have acquired this file he would have never told him and he needed to. He needed to do this and Sherlock had opened that door of him. And with that, a giant weight had been removed from his chest.

They were standing impossibly close together and John hated that immense gap. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso, squeezing his damp face against his friend's button up shirt. Sherlock's hands slowly moved up his back and he wrapped his slender hands around John.

They stood like that for what seemed like hours but it could have only been minutes. John's sobbing breath calmed, but he didn't move out of Sherlock's arms.

Eventually, he took a step back and picked up the file from where he had dropped it on the floor. Everything was scattered.

"Okay, so tell me what you know."

Sherlock sat down on the side of his bed and explained everything he read. Apparently, "not much" to Sherlock was practically everything John had ever done.

When Sherlock was done, John sat beside his flatmate, "I'm more broken than you originally thought."

"No, John. I-," Sherlock said before John cut him off.

"Sherlock, I want you to listen to me for once, okay?" John paused waiting for Sherlock to indicate he was going to be quiet for five minutes.

Sherlock nodded his head in embarrassment and John proceeded with his story. He told Sherlock about his parents' death, which left him and Harry in an orphanage. He told him how much he hated it. Harry was only there for a few years but John spend most of life in the confinements of the old orphanage. He got in fights and often wound up having to go to the hospital (not for himself but to apologize to the other boy. Sherlock chuckled at that). One day he had a bad cut from a bottle fight and the doctor had asked him the standard questions about uni and career choices and John had told him about being a doctor and how he sometimes practiced on himself when the cuts weren't so bad. And that's how he got into Bart's, a recommendation and a connection. He worked hard day and night to keep up with the other, smarter students, but eventually he made it. Then he was deployed to Afghanistan where his world seemed to take a whole new turn. He had seen things in that war that he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, but a side of him was attracted to it. He liked the dangerous situations and always being able to see death staring him in the face. It was crazy and risky and thrilling and when he was sent back after he was shot, he missed it. He had nightmares and he couldn't sleep. He didn't eat and he barely got out of his flat. He kept his pistol close by his side always ready for the perfect opportunity.

But before he could act on his intentions, he met Sherlock Holmes. The man who changed his life. The man who saved his life.

At this point, John couldn't continue, for his eyes were filled with tears and his hands had started to shake.

The tears started to fall and he descended back into a fit of silent tears. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what his life would have been like if he hadn't met Sherlock. Would he still be walking on this Earth? Would someone have stopped him? John could feel himself breaking down and he needed Sherlock to say or do _something_.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's and rested his head on his shoulder, "I'm sorry," he whispered.

John turned his head into Sherlock's dark curls and let his lips barely brush against the top of his head. Sherlock moved his hand across John's thigh where he intertwined their hands, "I'm so sorry, John. I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, please. Just, let's not talk about it. I'm done talking."

Sherlock yanked his head back and stared at John, "I'm sorry-"

John cupped Sherlock's face, "I needed to tell you everything and know I have and now I'm done. Do you understand?"

Sherlock just sat there staring back at John with his silver-grey eyes. He nodded slowly.

"Okay." John stood up, "I'm going out."

"Okay," Sherlock quietly said as his flatmate walked out of his own room. John almost felt bad for leaving him like that but he needed some time away from Sherlock. He couldn't think straight around him. He changed in the bathroom and walked out of the flat, not bothering with a coat.

* * *

Sherlock sat in John's room for a long while after he heard his flatmate leave for the streets of London. He laid back into John's bed and relished in the lingering smell. He let his hands slide over the sheets and he closed his eyes imagining what could have been. Would he have woken up here in this room with John? Would they sleep in when cases were slow, or would they wake up early and make tea and sit by the fire? What could have _this_ been?

He needed to stop. Sherlock quickly jumped up from John's bed and rushed to the door, slamming it behind him. He knocked his head against the door and closed his eyes. He had to stop doing this to himself. He couldn't dwell on what could have happened. He couldn't keep wondering if he had been braver, or if he hadn't turned him down that night at Angelo's.

Sherlock buried his head into the palms of his hands. _Calm down, Sherlock._ He could feel his breath quacking. _Calm down. Calm down, calm down, calm down, CALM DOWN._

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes shot open at the sound of his name. _Ms. Hudson_.

"Sherlock, when I come up, there better not be anything on fire. I told you to keep your experiments under control and flammables far, far away."

He tugged his dressing gown around his body and allowed his arms to follow, keeping them crossed across his body. Sherlock walked down the stairs, not hiding his emotions from Ms. Hudson.

"Sherlock, you really need to- ", she said before turning around to see his face, "Oh, Sherlock...you look utterly awful." She brushed something off of his shoulder and adjusted his shirt. "What's wrong?"

He turned away, roamed over to the window, and moved the curtain aside to peer out at the dark grey sky. He didn't know how to answer her question. _What_ was _wrong?_ It was John and Moriarty and the fact that he was hiding. He was hiding his past and he was hiding himself. He was scared. He was scared of himself, but he had waited long enough. He had to do this. He had to find Jim Moriarty. "I have to go." Sherlock quickly strode down the hallway to his room, hoping Mrs. Hudson would leave if he acted as if he had more important things to do.

Sherlock turned to close the door, but before it could shut Mrs. Hudson pushed it back open, "You can't shut yourself out forever. You need to tell him."

He couldn't talk about this right now. He didn't ever want to talk about this. Not with Mrs. Hudson, not with his brother, and definitely not with John. Everyone around him knew, but the one who mattered the most didn't.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath, "I can't. I can't tell him."

"Why not?" she said, her voice rising in pitch, "I have seen the two of you suffer for far too long. Please, Sherlock. Just talk to him. What's the worst that could happen?"

Sherlock whipped his head around and gritted his teeth, "What can go _wrong_?!" Sherlock was at a loss for words. Everything could go wrong. John could leave. He could leave and write about the embarrassment that was Sherlock Holmes and post it on his ridiculous blog and he would laugh at Sherlock and tell everyone he knew what a mess Sherlock was. A lot of things could go wrong and Sherlock was not ready to see his life slip through his fingers even further.

"I need you to leave. Now." Sherlock was desperately trying to hold it together. Desperately trying to hold up the walls he had held up for so long. Desperately trying to hold onto the best thing in his life. And once that thought crossed through his head, Sherlock realized his whole life depended on John Watson. Everything that had happened to him since he left that horrid drug den all those years ago had led him to John and he couldn't throw that away. Not after how far he had come. He couldn't let Moriarty get away with this.

Sherlock turned back around to Ms. Hudson and let his eyes do the talking, let the fire rage through his eyes.

Ms. Hudson's face fell with defeat before she paced back down the hall, shaking her head.

Once he heard the door quietly shut, Sherlock threw on his suit, tossed his coat around himself, and tied his scarf around his neck. He grabbed his phone and bounded down the stairs. Instead of throwing the door wide open and disappearing into the city, Sherlock paused as his hand grazed the door knob. He was going to have to go back. Back into his past.

Sherlock yanked the door open and braced himself against the cold London air.

Sherlock hopped out of the cab and stood in the driveway, the gravel crunching underneath his feet as he shifted his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet. He turned back around and motioned to the cabbie to wait. Sherlock rotated back to face the house and examined its dark figure set against the slat grey backdrop of the sky. It looked deserted (as it should be). No sign of Moriarty lurking in the quiet dark corners. Sherlock walked across the lawn, the dead grass crumbling underneath his feet, the wind cutting through his Belstaff and biting at his face.

He approached the door and paused, listening for any sign of lingering shadows inside the house. He closed his eyes, collecting his breath. If there was any way to find Moriarty it would be lurking in here, where Sherlock had last known he was. What lie ahead, Sherlock was ready. He was ready to face whatever was behind this door.

The door slowly creaked open as his hand slid across the black cracking paint. The entryway appeared to be untouched, looking just as he had remembered. Sherlock had come here several times after John had left the hospital (without John knowing of course), but something felt different than those times. He let his eyes linger on the small details longer than he would have normally.

Sherlock's eyes almost missed the blood at the bottom of the stairs. He expected it to be dried and gone by now, but it was still here. A small pool of blood sustained manually to send a message to him. _John's life was still in Moriarty's hands_. He must have collected some of John's blood and came back here to keep it looking like the pool that had sat at the bottom of those stairs that night had been there since they had left. _Freak._ Moriarty had added a thicker trail leading up the stairs to the second floor. Sherlock ran his hands along the wall as he followed the trail like he was stalking a wounded animal.

The trail of blood ended with a stark bloody X drawn on one of the doors. Sherlock turned the knob and peered into the room. Assured it wasn't a trap, he pushed the door the rest of the way open. The room. It was _the room._ The room where he had hit Charlie. The room where the _worst_...things had happened to him. _It's a trap. This is a trap. A trap, a trap…_

Sherlock composed himself, telling himself it was fine, everything was fine. He took a step forward and was immediately hit with the smell of cocaine infiltrating his nostrils. Sherlock covered his nose with the sleeve of his coat because the smell was so strong. He couldn't breathe. He grasped at the wall with his free hand and buried his head in his hands.

Images began to flash through his head. He was curled up against the wall, his left hand clutching his upper forearm as he squirmed when the wave hit him. The other, older boys moved around him and started to shove him. He tried to get up but his body felt heavy, the cocaine settling in. He was yanked back and two of the boys pinned him onto the floor, the others pulling at his skin. And they hit him like some rag doll. He was so much smaller than them. They tossed him around, each one of them taking a shot. He screamed, crying for anyone. Tears rolling down his face. He had bit his lip and blood lingered in his mouth. He couldn't even defend himself as they hit him. He was so alone. So weak and alone.

Sherlock was shaking uncontrollably and the room was starting to spin. His eyes were damp with tears and his breathing was uneven. _Please. Leave me alone._

Sherlock turned back around to face the rest of the room. He wiped the tears from his eyes and sniffed. Moriarty was using this place against him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small red light flash. Then it flashed again. And again. And again and again. _Camera._ He lost it right then and there. He looked for anything to throw at the not-so-hidden hidden camera. He threw anything in the room at it. An empty beer bottle, a broken chair, anything, he pulled out his gun and shot at the damn thing. When the red light stopped flashing, he approached the wall, used the window ledge as a foot rest and propelled himself upward to pull the camera out of the wall. Then he smashed it. He threw the shards against the wall, repeatedly. He screamed again and again, letting out everything he held back for a stupid camera planted to watch him lose it at the slightest smell of cocaine. Moriarty enjoyed his suffering. He was probably laughing at the footage he had just received…

The footage. No, no, no, no, no no no no no no. NO. Moriarty would send it to John and John would know he was here again. No. This was not good. This was bad. This could be the final straw for John. John couldn't know he was here. Couldn't know he was after Moriarty. He couldn't know. He would leave. He would know that he could never trust Sherlock. The man who kept putting himself in danger. The man who kept putting John in danger. And for what?

Sherlock ran down the stairs, his feet pounding against the old wood. He tore out of the house and sprinted back to the cab. He yanked the door open and was instantly flooded with questions.

"Oi mate. You sure were in there a long time. Everything alright? Why were you running? Are you in trouble? Is someone else in there? Oh, no please tell me…"

"JUST DRIVE!" Sherlock yelled.

The cabbie's eyes widened and he turned around to race down back to London as Sherlock yelled at him to drive faster.

* * *

It was getting late. John had arrived back at the flat a few hours ago and immediately plopped himself on the couch. He needed some time out of the stuffy confinements of 221 B, but he really needed to be away from Sherlock. Every time he looked at Sherlock he could feel every nerve in his body go on edge. It had been like that since he first met the tall, dark-haired, sharp cheekbone man. He was going to go mad if he had to stand in front of Sherlock for much longer and keep himself in check. He could say it. He could tell him, but it was the fear of not being loved back. It made his heart ache. He never wanted to feel like that and he had a feeling that the words that came from his mouth had to be held back like a dam keeping all of its precious secrets barred from reality.

Just thinking about it made him exhausted. He threw his hand over his eyes and let himself go. Let all the thoughts escape into a dark void. He could feel his eyes drifting off and his breathing becoming shallower. He hadn't been sleeping much lately. With everything that had happened, he couldn't close his eyes for more than a few hours without waking up from a nightmare. His PTSD had resonated itself back into his psyche and John hadn't felt like this since before Sherlock. He tried not to think. Tried not think about the war, or the sounds of gunshots, or the trembling shakes as a man died in his arms. He tried not to think about the knives digging into his skin, or the sound of Moriarty laughing at him, or the taste of blood as he bit at the inside of his mouth.

John brought his first two fingers up and took his pulse. He sighed and focused on evening his breath out. He stayed like that for a while just focusing on his breathing, focusing on the quiet sounds rising from the street below, focusing on the scent of the flat. When his breathing evened out and he started to feel a little more stable, he stood up for some tea.

John strolled into the kitchen, put the kettle on, and leaned against the counter, head tilted back, eyes closed. The flat was silent. It was always quieter without Sherlock, but John couldn't help but miss his presence. He liked the way Sherlock filled a room and how his bold words never failed to take the breath out of his audience. He took everything in stride and never hesitated when faced with anything. He jumped in head first without a second thought. And John couldn't help but stay by his side.

He was scared; terrified even, but he had one chance to get this right and if he didn't do it soon, Sherlock would never know what really happened behind his head.

John heard his mobile chime from the living room. He thought about ignoring it and just waiting for his tea to finish, but he thought better of it and walked back to the couch. He picked it up, hoping it was Sherlock but the number was… Unknown. He unlocked his phone and opened the attachment in the message. It was a video.

John clicked on it. At first, it was just a black screen, but soon the picture flashed into view. It was the house. John didn't recognize the room, but he knew this was it. Why was this being sent to him now? In the corner, John could see the door slowly creak open and then stop. This was creepy, but it had to have been Moriarty who sent this to him. No one else would have sent this to him. No one.

John kept watching the video, eager to see what this was all about. The door opened slowly and Sherlock stepped forward.

John could feel his pulse drop and the color drain from his face.

Sherlock looked around the room and his eyes grew wider, his face more panicked. He covered his nose with the sleeve his Belstaff like he was smelling something unpleasant and John hoped there wasn't a rotting body in the room. Sherlock stumbled back into the wall, his eyes filled with tears. What was he seeing? John couldn't see the whole room and even his view of Sherlock was a little hazy. God, what was making him react like that? He had no prior connections…

Suddenly the pieces started to slide together. Sherlock had been to that house a long time before Moriarty had led him there. That's why Moriarty chose the place. Not because it was the most convenient, no, there were plenty of better places for him to torture John. This was always a game about Sherlock. Something had happened in Sherlock's past at that house, and knowing that Sherlock hadn't had the most innocent upbringing, John wouldn't be surprised if it was his old drug hideout.

John could feel his anger growing more and more, the fire raging through him, the dragon ripping at the inside of his chest. Sherlock knew that house and he hadn't said _anything._ He said nothing to John, who was _tortured_ because he wanted to save his own skin. John stood there, hand clinched into a fist, fingernails digging into his skin. Why had Sherlock gone back? He had put himself in danger for what? John squeezed his phone and just stood there, his own eyes filling with tears.

What was he still doing here? Why was he waiting here for someone who constantly _lied?_ Why hadn't he already left?

"John?"

He turned his head towards the voice and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, his gaze landed on the worried look on his flatmate's face. His mouth was slightly parted, his eyes wide with fear, and his cheeks slightly red.

"Why? Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock stood in the doorway, his eyes shifted to John's mobile before they filled with an apologetic gaze, "I'm sorry."

* * *

Sherlock and John just stood there, neither of them daring to move. John's eyes were searching, scanning Sherlock's face, looking for something.

Sherlock didn't want to say anything. Nothing he could say would fix anything. The words he wanted to say would make everything worse. He couldn't do this; not here, not now.

Eventually, John's anger faded into denial. His eyes fell to the floor, his hands clenching and unclenching, his eyes filling with sadness.

"Why did you go back? Why were you looking for him?" John said, his voice cracking as he walked behind Sherlock's arm chair, "Why? Why didn't you tell me? And now," John paused, holding back, "and now I know that you knew that place. God, Sherlock you could have told me. You could have talked to me. I would have understood, but now…just tell me why." His eyes were filled with a fire that had been drowned by the betrayal of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock closed his eyes and then shock his head, "I'm sorry, but I…I, I… I can't."

"WHY NOT? Why can't you, for once in your life, tell me the fucking truth, Sherlock?"

Sherlock could feel his own eyes filling with tears, "If I told you what happened in that house all those years ago, you would never look at me the same." Sherlock paused and ran his hands through his hair, "And I can let you walk out of here. I can watch you walk out of that door and I could never see you again. You would be happy, but I wouldn't be able to stop you. You wouldn't have to listen to me anymore. But if I let you walk out of here, I would have nothing."

Sherlock stopped there and turned away from John. His friend's face had fallen even further. He was angry, but he was looking at Sherlock as if he was a lost dog and Sherlock hated that.

But he had to do this. He couldn't hide who he was forever, "I went back to protect what I have left. I went back to show Moriarty that he can't play with me any longer. I will not be afraid of my past. I went back because I was scared and I don't what to be scared of myself anymore."

John dug his fingers into the black leather of the chair and squeezed his eyes shut, "What are you hiding Sherlock? You're no telling me something and I ignored it for a long time, but now _I'm done_. I'm done waiting for an answer. What is Moriarty using against you?"

Sherlock paused letting John's words hang in the air, lingering and demanding something, _anything._ Sherlock rubbed at his eyes, trying to think. Just _think._ His breath quickened and rose further up his throat, choking the words out of his mouth as if his own body knew what kind of damage those words would produce. _I can't do this. I can't._ Sherlock pressed the base of his hands harder into his eye sockets. He trembled against the force, his whole body shaking as tears ran down his face. His head started to spin and he though passing out wasn't such a bad option.

 _No. You have to do this._ He had to or he would hate himself for the rest of his life.

Sherlock turned his head back around to John. He closed his eyes as the words fell out of his mouth. He let those words that had sat on the tip of his tongue slip out of his grasp. They ran through his head and then toppled out into the open air, "I love you."

Sherlock paused for a few moments, hearing the words ripple through the and then he opened his eyes. Instead of seeing the awful scenario he had played in his head to keep him from saying those words, he saw tears rolling out of John's eyes. A small smile creeping along his face, his eyebrows scrunched together as he tried to keep it together. Sherlock didn't know what else to say. Speechless. He had never been speechless. He never expected to hear those words escape his mouth. He closed his eyes again and opened them before he spoke.

"I love you, John, and I always have. That's what Moriarty is using. You. And everything I did in that house, all of it, he's using that too, hoping that you couldn't stand me and I wouldn't blame you if you left. I really wouldn't-" Sherlock stopped as John strode across the room, their eyes locked onto each other's. A small glimmer of quiet fear spread across John's face but quickly faded as he approached Sherlock.

John didn't pause, didn't hesitate before he took Sherlock's lapels into his hands and softly pulled the consulting detective down to meet his lips. And he kissed him. He let his lips slide against Sherlock's and pulled at his bottom lip.

And Sherlock had no words to describe the sensation of John's lips pressed up against his. He couldn't believe John was _kissing_ him. He was surprised at the pure _genius_ of the way John moved against Sherlock. They were like two fluid substances flowing against each other. And he felt overwhelmed in the best possible way.

Sherlock brought his hands up to John's face and cupped the hard line of the shorter man's jaw. Everything seemed to stop in that moment as the two of them stood there, two rocks as the rest of the world moved by in waves.

And John kissed Sherlock like he had never kissed anyone before. This _meant_ something. It wasn't someone he had just meet, it was Sherlock. It was his flatmate and his best friend and the man he had loved since he let himself love him. He loved him, but he didn't have the words so he just kissed him. He kissed him and he let everything that Sherlock wasn't saying slip away because deep down he knew. He knew Sherlock held secrets deep down that, in some way, protected him. He understood and he forgave him. He didn't need to know; he just needed Sherlock.

Sherlock could feel John releasing, letting him take control and Sherlock fell back into John. He moved his hands through John's hair as he kissed him and John slowly ran his hands up towards Sherlock's neck. He traced the line of Sherlock's right collarbone and practically smiled as he shuddered at the touch.

Sherlock's hands started to shake. He could feel his breath escaping from him and he could feel his heart pumping faster and faster. His head was spinning. Everything was happening so fast and Sherlock was having an increasingly harder time keeping up. He felt overwhelmed. He felt like he was going to shatter into a million pieces. And then John's hands started to move up from his lapels, tracing his collarbone and then gliding up to his shoulders and towards the back of his neck. Smooth and fluid hands gliding across his neck. He was going to faint.

John could feel Sherlock's heartbeat as he ran his hands back down the taller man's chest. John pulled back to look at Sherlock. His eyes were frazzled and he was having a hard time catching his breath.

A small smirk spread across Sherlock's face, "I guess we finally found something you're good at."

John laughed, "Oh okay, smartass. Didn't know you'd be so snarky after _that._ "

Sherlock laughed and his _eyes_ smiled back at John, "I love you." Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close as he buried his head in the crock of John's neck.

John's hands ran across Sherlock's back. He closed his eyes and let his head rest against Sherlock's. He was in love with him and he couldn't help but smile. No longer did it matter that Moriarty was trying to weave a web between them because they had each other. And they always had, but know it was clear as glass.

And Sherlock, well Sherlock needed this. He needed this more than anything right now. Everything was a little more bearable without this giant weight trying to crush him as he suffocated from the words not said. Sherlock had suffered enough. _John_ had suffered enough. And Sherlock was ready to leave behind his past; he wasn't hiding anymore. He was done torturing himself.

"I love you, Sherlock," John whispered in his ear, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

 **Author's Note: WOW can I tell you this was sure fun to write! Ughhh I'm dead. Thank you guys for reading! Please please please tell me what you think and follow me as an author and this story to receive updates! The next chapter may take a while but it is coming! I'm not disappearing; I swear! Thank YOU and have a GREAT DAY! :)**


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